


Brothers

by gaslight



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Morgan Has Low Self-Esteem, Arthur thinks he's a terrible brother but he's the best thing that's happened to the boy, Brotherly Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Fan Art, Fluff, Gen, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John adores his big brother, John is a wild child and forever testing Arthur's patience, Pre-Canon, Protective Arthur Morgan, Soft Cowboahs are the Best Cowboahs, Young Arthur Morgan, Young John Marston
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2019-12-29 21:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 63,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18302507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaslight/pseuds/gaslight
Summary: Out of all the ideas Dutch and Hosea have schemed up, thrusting Arthur into the role of older brother had to be the most ill-advised yet. Taking care of others, especially a boy with fire in his eyes and mischief in his heart, was far beyond his skill set. Destruction seeped from Arthur's fingers, laying waste to every good thing that ever came his way. It was only a matter of time before he would lead the boy to ruin.This story follows John growing up from Arthur's perspective. Arthur struggles with the responsibility of being an older brother, particularly being looked up to, as his own actions cut away at his soul and his self-worth continues to erode. He teaches John different things along the way--with varying degrees of success--and strives to protect him from harm. This is easier said than done, as is Arthur's desire to prevent the kid from becoming like him.





	1. How to Chase Away Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Given just how much of an influence Arthur had on John and the events that transpire in RDR2 between them, I wanted to explore the idea that they had a strong relationship prior the latter's yearlong absence. This was purposely written to be wholesome to balance out the violence/angst...and because I'm a sucker for brotherly/found family content. Spoilers are limited and only pertain to pre-canon stuff. (There are spoilers for the game in the comments however, so be mindful!) Enjoy!

Trouble usually came in the angry cries of lawmen hot on their tails, in a risky job with a reward too alluring to pass up—not in the face of a terrified child. Down yonder a waif fidgeted despite his binds, awaiting death beneath a sycamore tree. More creature than boy, big brown eyes darted about and bared teeth gleamed behind a mess of scraggly black hair. The shadow of a noose lay upon his face. Ready shotguns stilled any chance of escape. He tried to bite the man who placed the rope around his scrawny neck and earned himself a swift slap. Hands bound in front, clasped together in prayer—though his snarled lips spoke of words too foul for the Lord. A small crowd had gathered; gawking onlookers with hunger in their eyes and an open thirst for blood.

They would remain parched.

It was the slight squaring of his shoulders, the flicker of anger in Dutch’s dark eyes that told Arthur this is something he would not stand for—and neither would Hosea nor himself. Three horses bounded straight ahead, firearms drawn as the stool was kicked out from beneath the boy’s feet. Thin legs kicked and flailed, angry eyes bulged, his whole body jerked violently; the child didn’t realize the fight within would kill him faster.

Shots rang out, silencing the jeering that had swelled into a frenzy. The rope exploded, sending the purple-faced boy to the ground. Blood gushed from gaping mouths and shotguns fell to the dirt as the homesteaders crumpled one-by-one. Screams and gunfire filled the air. People ran in every which way. Like a startled deer, the boy zigzagged and dodged swarming predators. A wiry bastard with more hair on his chin than his head caught what remained of the noose, yanking the boy back. Arthur jumped off his horse and drove his fist into the man’s face until he let go, skin splitting as knuckles collided repeatedly with a jaw. The child stared at Arthur as he threw the man aside; a look of awe broke through the tears. Arthur scooped him up, wincing at how light he was and how the boy buried his face in the crook of his neck. Hosea covered them as Arthur ran to Dutch, who tossed the boy onto the back of his horse, Admiral. The four fled, leaving behind only a cloud of dust and three oozing corpses in their wake.

\--

“What’s your name, son?” Dutch asked, using his knife to cut the binds from the boy’s wrists, skin raw and pink beneath. Brown eyes danced between his new captors: Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur—who was off to the side wiping down their exhausted horses. Dirty hands fidgeted, digging out grime embedded under his nails as the older men stared at him curiously.

It hurt to look at the boy. Purple bruises marred his cheekbones and slithered around his stick-like arms. Shirt and pants torn, crusted with dried blood; chapped lips split open in several places. Although it was black instead of blond, brown instead of blue, heavily tanned skin instead of a sickly pale, the familiarity was too much. A momentary glance from Hosea made Arthur duck his head, as if he could hide beneath the brim of his hat. He tried to focus on the horses to still his swirling thoughts, tried to clamp down on the heat building in his chest through deep breaths. It only partially worked.

“John Marston,” he replied in a quiet voice, pulling the tattered noose from his bleeding and ravaged neck. His hands brushed the sore flesh gingerly, wincing, then snapping away when fresh crimson marred his fingertips.

“John Marston, hm?” Dutch rolled the name over on his tongue like a hard candy that was too sour to truly enjoy but too sweet to spit out. “And how old are you?”

“Twelve.”

Christ alive. The malnourished runt looked nine at the most. When was the last time he ate a proper meal?

“Tell me, boy, why exactly were they so determined to string you up? Didn’t quite catch the charge against you with all that hollering going on.” A string of accusations came through a haze of smoke. “Did you kill someone, John? Attack an innocent? Steal a fair bit of money? Or was all this just a big misunderstanding where blame was erroneously tossed at your feet? Hm?”

John’s lips screwed up at the word ‘erroneously,’ eyes narrowing at the slyness in Dutch’s smooth voice, the underscore of mockery in his words. His little fists clenched at the soil by his legs and body grew eerily still. A caged animal ready to bolt the moment an opportunity arose, or perhaps ready to lash out. For Arthur, another memory had come back to life. Dutch leaned in, undaunted, his frame completely dwarfed the boy. Whereas Arthur had stared at his feet, John met the intimidating man’s hard gaze through thin slits.

“Cat got your tongue?” Dutch snickered. “Did we make a mistake in saving you, boy? Maybe we oughta turn around and bring you on back. Maybe drop you off at a sheriff’s office. They’ll hang you right. Everyone seemed mighty upset about whatever treachery took place.”

In the years to come, John would develop a habit of unintentionally saying things that twisted Arthur’s heart around in his chest—the beat was the same, but the rhythm forever changed. This was the first of many such instances.

“I was hungry so I stole a chicken,” John hissed, pink tinting his cheeks. “I felt bad ‘bout taking the hen away from her chicks. Got caught when I put her back.”

How great a shame it was that they could only kill those homesteaders once.

Hosea spoke before Dutch could, shooting his partner a silent look of warning. Quit terrorizing the child, it said, ain’t he been through enough? Dutch obliged, leaning back to rest on his elbow with a smirk, still enjoying what remained of his cigar. Something dangerous was brewing within. His stormy eyes never left John.

“Anyone you’d like us to take you to, John? Got any family?” Hosea’s voice was gentle and soothing, the kind he used when Arthur was upset about things he had no control over.

John simply shook his head. A slow grin crept across Dutch’s face, twisting his mustache, growing wider as Hosea raised his eyebrows in a knowing manner. There was a fire in the boy. One that burned regardless of fear, regardless of danger. One that nearly got him killed and may one day spell his end. Yet here Dutch was clearly wanting to douse the boy with fuel, watch it grow and swell until the flames were out of control. Dutch had lit up like a gaslight; the same way he always did whenever a great opportunity was at hand.

“You do now.”

And just like that the axis of Arthur’s world shifted. Who knew it would happen on a whim? The words tossed out as if discussing the weather. Dutch and Hosea beamed at the confused child like he was a pile of gold. Something precious; something rare. The dirt fell from John’s hands. Arthur blinked slowly, wondering if this was another thing too complex for him to understand. An elaborate joke, surely.

“Dutch?” Arthur began slowly, footsteps hesitant as he brought over a bottle of whiskey, an old cloth, and a roll of gauze swiped from a doctor’s kit when they were last in town.

“Arthur.” A warning. Not now, son. Don’t question me. Have a little faith.

So many questions and concerns bubbled in his mouth that Arthur grew too overwhelmed to speak. Instead he pulled the cork and pushed aside the nasty yearning to down the whiskey in one go. Are you sure about this? Can’t we just bring him to an orphanage? Does John have a say in the matter? Is he yet another chore to be added to Arthur’s list of things to take care of? The boy needed help, but not the kind they had to offer. He was too young, too small to be of any use. It would be years before he could really pull his weight. For that matter, John didn’t seem all that sharp. His brows knit together, watching Arthur pour alcohol onto the cloth. Arthur wasn’t that bright himself, but the gang sure as hell didn’t need someone who couldn’t put two-and-two together.

The little bastard hissed and spat, all claws and teeth as a strong arm wrapped around his tiny waist, hackles raised as Arthur cleaned the torn up neck. The squirming didn’t cease even after the sting of the alcohol was replaced with the soft gauze. John acted as though Arthur would actually throttle him and not just think about it. Apparently, this was adorable. Dutch and Hosea smiled at John in the same way Arthur did at kittens that peeked out from beneath their mother’s fur. His two fathers’ hearts were set and nothing Arthur could say would discourage them from bringing home their newest pet.

A thick eyebrow crooked at him. His silence had dragged on so long the brat had stopped fussing and was trying to curl against Arthur for warmth. Arthur fumbled over his words as he shoved his thoughts down along with all his other unwanted opinions. “Maybe, maybe we oughta find a better place to camp? We’re kinda, ya know, exposed here.”

\--

John was an absolute terror in camp—not that Arthur was surprised. Taming a feral cat was a fool’s errand. Once the boy realized he was indeed safe and no one in the Van Der Linde Gang was going to hit him nor toss him out on his ass, no matter how much he deserved it, there was no holding John back. With no walls to bounce off of, his boundless energy came out through mischief: rifling through Arthur’s belongings, climbing up every damn tree in the vicinity, chasing after chickens, always running and rolling around, fleeing when it was time to bathe, and cackling madly through it all.

“Damn it, boy,” Arthur snapped as John snatched his hat yet again. Everyone around the campfire watched in silent amusement. “Give her here or I’ll knock that empty head clean off your shoulders.”

Just out of Arthur’s reach, John plopped the hat on. His toothy grin fell into a sour expression as he crossed his arms and put on an extra gruff drawl. “Give ‘er ‘ere or I’ll knock tha’ empty head clean off ya shoulders!”

Everyone hooted with laughter and John beamed while Arthur’s cheeks burned. Damn sponge soaked up attention like his life depended on it.

For a boy with such vigor in his bones, John was the laziest son of a bitch Arthur had ever met. Chores was not a concept John was familiar with. Maybe that’s why he had so much energy. John always slept in too late and forgot how to do the simplest tasks no matter how many times Arthur showed him. Perhaps it was for the best. The brat couldn’t do much right. Always tripping over his own damn feet. Always getting in the way. Knocking things over. Crashing into people. Falling off horses. Falling out of trees—low ones fortunately. Falling off Arthur whenever the fool had the brainless idea to jump on the older man’s back, laughing like a jackass whenever he got bucked off. (To be fair, Arthur blamed himself for that one. John had twisted his ankle when Arthur chased him across a field, trying to retrieve his stolen revolver. As much as he wanted to let the would-be thief limp his way back to camp, Dutch would take a strip off Arthur for being cruel to the Golden Boy).

John was always hurting himself. Never looked before he leaped; never gave a hoot about consequences. Caution was thrown to the wind with both hands. Miss Grimshaw and Bessie, bless them, always offered to help but John only wanted Arthur for a nursemaid. For the life of him, he could not understand why. His hands were rough. His words could never soothe. His actions were harsh no matter how gentle he tried to be. Arthur was just no good at taking care of others, but he was the only one who could touch the boy without upsetting him. Soon Arthur lost count of the number of times he had to patch John up or save him from his own idiocy.

“Arthur! Help!”

As much as it annoyed Arthur, he always came running. This time the idiot had, once again, gotten himself stuck up a tree.

“I oughta leave your fool ass up there!” Arthur hollered, hands on his hips. “I done told you time and again not to climb up too high!”

John clung to the highest branch, too scared to even throw down one of his usual nasty retorts. The silence was what ate away at Arthur. John was anything but quiet. He muttered up a storm of curse words, hoping none reached the brat’s ears, while hoisting himself upwards one branch at a time. John may just be the stupidest fool alive, but Arthur wasn’t one to talk. After all, here he was, climbing a flimsy tree that he was far too heavy for. If he fell and broke his neck, it would serve him right.

“God damn, no-good, shit-for-brains idiot,” Arthur growled as he reached the trembling boy. John practically leaped into his arms, holding onto him for dear life even after they had reached the ground.

Arthur tossed John aside like he was a dirty rag. “Next time I’m leavin’ you up there.”

Scowling darkly and rubbing his sore ass, John kicked Arthur in the shin. He scampered off before the older man could return the favor. It was times like these John left Arthur in such a sour mood that against his better judgement he would bitch and moan to Hosea—never Dutch—despite knowing no good would come from it. He was always met with a soft chuckle and a slight admonishment. “He’s just a child, Arthur.”

Try as he might, Arthur could not stay mad at John for long. Any complaints were born out of frustration rather than hate. It was like being upset at Copper for rolling around in the mud and then shaking off the excess near Arthur—he didn’t know any better. John held grudges though, held every little injustice against him close to his heart. If Arthur snapped at him in the morning for spooking the horses, John made snippy comments well into the evening. The brat liked to stick out his tongue too.

“Imma cut that off one of these days,” Arthur grumbled as John scooped up the last of the stew before the older man could.

“I’d like to see you try!”

“Better watch that mouth, boy, or I’ll wring that ugly neck of yours.”

That shut the fool up. John was fixated on hiding his neck—hands always lingering by his jaw, ducking his head whenever an adult knelt down to his eye level. A permanent reminder of the noose riddled his soft flesh. The brat stormed off, leaving his full bowl behind. Dutch and Hosea gave him such a foul look that Arthur wished the pot was full of stew again, if only to drown himself.

Later on when Arthur finally found the boy pouting up in a tree, he dragged the disgruntled raccoon kicking and screaming back to their tent. Smoke practically billowed out from John’s ears until Arthur rolled up an old, red bandana of his and tied it carefully around the boy’s neck. In the mirror John’s face lit up at how well it concealed the scar. He turned around, smiling widely, and for a moment Arthur foolishly thought he was going to get a thank you.

“I’m hungry.”

He pinched the brow of his nose. “Whose fault is that?”

“Yours!” John shoved him—or at least tried. “You big oaf!”

\--

Restlessness oozed from John’s skin. Forever impatient; forever in a hurry, as though his time was running out. Even at night, John seemed incapable of settling. Dutch once told him that hell on earth was the gilded cage of civilization that the world was slowly tricking itself into believing was freedom—but Arthur reckoned it was actually sharing a tent with a rambunctious twelve-year-old. When Arthur wanted to write in his journal, John would yawn and blow out the candle. When Arthur wanted to sleep after an exhausting job, John would plead until the outlaw spilled every last detail. Sometimes Arthur threatened to smother him with a pillow and John would whip one at his head, taunting him to just try. Life in camp meant privacy was not a luxury one basked in often, so Arthur wholeheartedly resented the loss of what little he had. Twenty-two and stuck with a wild child for a roommate.

One night though, Arthur awoke to soft whimpers. John was tossing and turning; trapped in a state of terror. Blanket kicked off. Silent tears. Mumbled pleas of ‘don’t’ and ‘stop.’ Clawing at his neck and grasping at his arms. As much as he disliked the brat, Arthur could not bear to watch him suffer.

“Johnny,” Arthur whispered, shaking the boy slightly. “Hey, Johnny. Wake up.”

John’s hands flung out before he scrambled away, falling right off his cot onto the hard ground with a thud. Chest heaving, the whites of his eyes cut through the darkness with the accuracy of a knife through a heart. Only when he recognized the concerned, groggy voice telling him to simmer down did John speak in a tiny voice.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Arthur yawned, scratching his beard. He was surprised John even knew that word. Like hard work and good manners, he thought apologies were something foreign to the boy.

“Waking you.”

Arthur paused. “How often do you have nightmares?”

John looked away, silent as a mouse as he crawled back onto his bed. “I dunno how to make ‘em go away.”

The boy stared, unblinking, as Arthur hummed softly, flinching when a slow hand stretched towards him. It recalled a feeling locked within the darkest corners of Arthur’s soul. The sense of perpetual distrust and fear; that he was one wrong move away from yet another beating. Arthur breathed mistakes and didn’t know if what he was about to do was yet another to add to the long list. Would it be better to tell John to grow up and just deal with his nightmares? Arthur had no clue. No one had ever chased his own bad dreams away.

“I’m not gonna hurt ya,” Arthur said in the same tone he used to soothe his horse. “C’mere.”

A long moment of silence followed before a small hand slipped into his large one. Arthur led John over to his cot and laid down, tucking the boy in next to him. John’s fingers snaked their way along the fabric of Arthur’s union suit, grasping at more than just the flannel. His hand swept over the boy’s head, plucking out a twig here and there. Was it just the ghost of the noose choking the life out of him that haunted John? Was there something more? The lump was thick in his throat but Arthur swallowed his questions down.

“To make nightmares go away, you gotta wake me up, you hear? If you’re in my bed, my ugly mug will scare off whatever is scarin’ you.”

John giggled, nodding softly and snuggling closer to Arthur. Soon his grip loosened as Arthur’s touch lulled him to sleep.

Finally, the boy was still.


	2. How to Not Freeze to Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur adjusts to having a little brother. Some days are better than others. When John goes missing though, he's determined to find him.

Danger has many faces, but Arthur had yet to learn them all. Some were easy to recognize. Cool metal pressed into his back. Deer suddenly fleeing a peaceful forest clearing. The twitch of his father’s hands before he struck. Others were a mystery; clues to be pieced together.

It started with a glance across a smoky saloon. Deep-set eyes lingered a tad too long on Dutch as he bought Hosea and Arthur a round of drinks to celebrate a successful stagecoach heist. Halted whispers of passersby hung in the air as the three laughed and stumbled their way back to the ramshackle inn where John was waiting. Arthur’s jaw still hurt from how hard it hit the ground when the two caved to the boy’s incessant pleas, begging to escape the confines of camp for a day. John bubbled with such excitement at Arthur’s return he was practically bouncing on the bed, one question after another tumbling from his mouth.

That’s when Arthur saw them. Eight armed men. The sharp glint of a tin star in the moonlight. Too often danger had the face of a storm far out at sea. Only visible once the wind swelled ripples into devastating waves that crashed ashore, threatening to wash away everything one held dear. Regret squeezed all the air from his lungs. They should have left town the moment Arthur caught the stare. How could he be so foolish? Swearing under his breath, but with fire fresh in his belly, he welcomed a shootout with open arms—until the creaking of the mattress stilled. The raw terror in John’s eyes doused the flames within.

Arthur pounded his fist twice against the thin wall. “We got company!”

Dutch swore violently before he replied, “Well, I suppose it’s time to abandon ship.”

Two windows were thrown open as most of the armed posse slipped inside. Bless the overcast night sky. Their creeping shadows remained unseen. One of the lawmen made the mistake of walking towards their horses. Arthur jumped, knees crashing hard into the man’s back, slamming him to the ground. His large hand muffled the screams as the throat below was torn open, blood poured over the knife and pooled in the dirt beneath. Another lookout met a similar fate at Hosea’s hand while Dutch helped John down from the roof—his wide eyes like a slap to the face. The boy knew the sort of men they were, but that didn’t make Arthur want to shield him any less from the truth.

“You’re criminals,” John had mumbled shyly in bed after a particularly bad nightmare. A statement, not a question.

“Outlaws.”

“What’s the difference?”

Hell if Arthur knew.

As they finished untying the reins from the hitching post, the sheriff’s men came out, mouths and guns blazing. Arthur wanted to stay and fight but knew his job even before Dutch jerked his chin. Go on now, son. Protect the boy. The soldier followed his orders, wrapping an arm around John’s middle, hoisting them both on top of Grace as a bullet whizzed past his ear. Arthur returned fire as he eased the mare up to a gallop, shielding John with his body as they fled town at a breakneck pace.

\--

A small thicket of trees by a lake served as their hiding spot. Crickets chirped and owls hooted as though their mutual purpose in life was to annoy Arthur. He faced a sleepless night with only his thoughts, who made for poor company, to keep him occupied. He tried not to think about how his palm still burned from the moment the lawman’s screams had stopped. If only the alcohol hadn’t worn off.

“Think Dutch and Hosea are alright?” John asked quietly as Arthur gathered sticks and rocks for a small fire.

Arthur grunted in the affirmative, not trusting his voice to mask his uncertainty. They had to be alright. Had to. He hunched over like a gargoyle atop an old church as he made a circle of stones, keeping his face low until John handed him a small bundle of dry grass.

“Y’know how to start a fire?”

John plucked a small packet of matches from Arthur’s satchel with a smile.

“Meant from scratch, smart ass,” Arthur grumbled, snatching them back. “What would you do if you needed a fire but your matches were wet, hm?”

"I reckon if I was dumb enough to get my matches wet, I’d deserve to freeze."

Arthur looked at the sky as if the clouds could rain down some patience.

“You _are_ dumb enough, so listen up. I always carry a piece of flint. Just strike some steel against it.” Arthur dug his fist into his satchel, taking what he needed for a demonstration. He snickered when John jumped back as a spark shot out from the knife. “If ya don’t have flint, just rub two pieces of dry wood together.” Arthur grabbed two sticks and rolled one between his hands, drilling it into the other beneath. “Push down hard and move fast.”

As his hands ran down the stick, Arthur would bring them back to the top and then repeat the motion, but faster. After doing this quite a few times, the wood dust began to smoke. Arthur dumped it onto the dry grass and blew onto the bundle until the gray fumes burst into flames. He quickly placed the tinder into his pile of sticks and blew on it until a proper fire emerged. John tried to follow Arthur’s example but after a few minutes of failing to even get smoke going, he complained of sore hands and chucked his sticks into the fire with a huff while Arthur snickered.

“Now I know why people invented matches,” John grumbled, moving Arthur’s arm aside to use his chest as a pillow. The boy gripped his shirt tight. “To avoid doing that.”

Arthur rolled his eyes so hard that even he was surprised his pupils didn’t get lost somewhere in the back of his skull.

\--

Time began to stretch out as the months fell away and the whirlwind of John’s arrival settled down into a breeze—one that still knocked his hat off every now and then but not enough to lift Arthur from the ground anymore. Cackling laughter and ceaseless questions became like the changing of the leaves or the tight feeling that bloomed in Arthur’s chest when trapped in a crowd. Life would be odd without them. Didn’t make the brat any less annoying though. Just this morning he nicked himself shaving, startled by squawks and screams. Somehow the fool pissed off a bunch of geese and Arthur had to rescue him.

Six months had passed but the shine still hadn’t worn off. By now they should have found a proper family to leave John with so he could grow up right. Give the boy the chance he never had. Arthur could never be anything more than an outsider, an outlaw. A wrongness so deep it was in his blood, in his bones. But Dutch and Hosea loved John. Wholeheartedly. Their son from the get-go. Whereas Arthur spent his first few years terrified he was going to be tossed aside after one mistake too many, belonging had never been a question for John. The veneer was permanent. He was theirs and he was going to stay.

Sore and sweating like a hog from a morning of felling trees, Arthur grunted as he struck a match on the bottom of his boot. School was in session. It was Hosea’s turn to transform into a schoolmarm, sitting by John as he struggled to write out his letters. His attention kept drifting from the shaky scribbles towards Copper, who was having the time of his life terrorizing squirrels trying to collect acorns for the winter.

Hosea’s brow quirked in amusement. “You can play with the dog later.”

“This is too hard,” John whined, chucking the pencil aside, folding in upon himself. “I’ll never be able to read or write. I’m gonna die stupid.”

Arthur bit his tongue. Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything.

“Nonsense, son.” Hosea placed a hand on the boy’s back, then pointed at the paper. “Look, you’ve already written out some of the alphabet from memory. Soon you’ll be able to form words with these letters, then one day you’ll build sentences and know what they say. You’ll see. What does Dutch always say?”

“Have faith.”

Hosea ruffled John’s hair and the kid bloomed like a damn sunflower. Absorbing the warmth of his father’s love, his arms uncrossed and he picked up the pencil. Wispy tendrils of smoke blew from Arthur’s nose, lips too thinly pursed. John could have scampered off and the delight in Hosea’s eyes wouldn’t have lessened. The seed of patience planted during Arthur’s early years had blossomed and now the brat reaped the rewards, all unearned.

“What exactly are you trying to accomplish by sitting around?” Miss Grimshaw snapped, holding a basket overflowing with blankets that needed mending. Arthur immediately took it from her. She patted his arm; dark hair as frazzled as her nerves. “Go get us some dinner. We can’t live off air.”

\--

A magnet for grass, twigs, and now dead leaves, John’s hair resembled a rat’s nest. The dishevelled black locks fell past his bony shoulders and was so full of knots that any comb brave enough to tackle that mess would be forever lost. Sometimes just to bug the kid, Arthur would make scissors with his fingers and bring them close to John’s face until he swatted them away.

“Is your greatest ambition in life to look like an ugly, stray mutt?”

“Is your greatest ambition in life to be an ass?”

“Keep givin’ me lip, boy, and I’ll cut it all off while ya sleep.”

John would stick out his tongue and that was that. Hair wasn’t something worth fighting over but not everyone felt the same. One day Miss Grimshaw made the mistake of trying to corner John in the hopes of giving him a cut, reducing the brat into near hysterics. It took Arthur a good five minutes to calm him down.

“Damn it, ya crazy fool. Why you gotta be difficult ‘bout every little thing?” Arthur grumbled, kneeling before John who sat shame-faced on his cot. “She wasn’t gonna stab you with the scissors.”

John worried his lip, fidgeting under Arthur’s hard stare. There was something he wanted to say, but as with writing found himself uncapable of stringing words together.

“When was the last time you had a haircut?”

John hiccupped. “Just before I ran away from the orphanage.”

His face fell. Orphanage? A slew of questions bubbled up, but Arthur blew them away with an audible sigh. Not now. Prying might set him off again. Instead, Arthur plucked a yellow oak leaf from the boy’s hair and gave it to him.

John ran his thumb along the stem. “Maybe I should cut it.”

“Ya think?” Arthur snorted, pulling the scissors from his pocket.

“Why are girls only allowed to have long hair?”

“Well, um.” Arthur’s hand froze, realizing he had no answer. “Ah, hell with it. They’re not. We can keep it long if ya like.”

His face lit up. “I have a choice?”

“Uh, yeah? That’s how haircuts work, Johnny boy.”

In the end, John let a confused Arthur cut his hair up to his chin without any fuss. Later when the boy wasn’t in the vicinity, he told the other adults to avoid cornering the kid from now on, unless they wanted him to lash out like a caged animal.

\--

Arms full of freshly chopped wood, Arthur slowly made his way back to camp, mindful of the ice and occasional deep pockets of snow. A dusting overnight had left the camp awash in white. Being twelve, John still found snow a novelty and left Arthur alone to do his chores while he played. Given the boy hovered around him like the moon does the earth, Arthur relished the rare peace and quiet. Back sore and head pounding with every movement, today was one of those days where everything pissed him off. Even the snow was too bright. So when he found John snoozing the day away inside a little snow fort, his eye nearly twitched. If Arthur was a good man, he would just carry on with his work.

But Arthur wasn’t a good man.

After placing the firewood down, he scooped up some snow and dumped it right onto the cat-napper. John jolted awake, limbs flinging out, hissing and swearing as he sat up in a daze. “What in hell?”

A lecherous grin tore across his face. “Rise n’ shine, ya lazy idiot.”

John charged headfirst with all the intensity of a raging bull calf. Arthur simply put his hands out, chuckling as he caught the boy and shoved him back. Naturally unsteady, John lost his balance and Arthur laughed all the more until he noticed the state the brat was in. Coat wide open. No gloves. No hat. Black hair speckled with white clumps.

“Are ya tryin’ to catch your death?” Arthur snapped, hauling John back up by the arm. Still far too light; an overgrown rag doll.

John struggled to get away as the older man started to button up his coat. The boy smacked his hands away and took over while Arthur removed his own scarf and wrapped it around the fool’s head.

“Arthur, you worry too much.” John’s face was lost beneath a pile of blue wool. He pulled the scarf down a bit, his warm brown gaze peeked out from under the fabric. All elbows and scraped knees, voice too loud for a body so small, and a tongue sharp enough to put any razor to shame, John’s eyes were the only hint there was any softness in him.

“Someone has to,” Arthur grunted, giving John his gloves too. They were too big for his hands, but it’s not like the boy had a pair of his own. “If you get sick, guess who Dutch will skin alive? Certainly not his precious Golden Boy.”

“Quit callin’ me that!”

Arthur bent down to pick up the wood he had dropped. “Sometimes I wonder how the hell you made it this far in life. It’s like your Ma never taught you how to dress.”

Something hard exploded against Arthur’s back. He spun around as another snowball came right for his face. Arthur ducked, but his hat suffered the blow. John’s face was pinched as he gathered more. All heart and no brains, the boy’s moods were as fickle as his attention when a book was placed before him. Arthur stormed over and John dropped all the snow, taking several steps back.

“Get the hell outta my sight. Go be a useless piece of shit somewhere else.”

Uncertain whether it was his words or the venom in his voice that stung the most, Arthur still rolled his eyes as John bounded off immediately without looking back once. He pulled out a cigarette as the forest swallowed the boy whole. Whenever the brat did something wrong or got upset, he almost always ran off and hid until Arthur tracked him down or he got bored and tiptoed back into camp to gauge the situation. He’ll be back.

Except John didn’t come back and unfortunately for Arthur, Dutch and Hosea do take notice when their younger son is missing from dinner.

“I swear sometimes it feels like I have two children! What the hell is the matter with you?” Dutch snapped, running a hand through his dark hair, face clouded by the fog from his mouth. The three of them closely followed Copper as he sniffed the forest floor.

“Why don’t you ever think, Arthur? What if a bear gets him? What if he gets frostbite?”

Arthur didn’t have anything to say for himself. Apologies wouldn’t exactly cut it. He reached instinctively for his cigarettes, only the realize he had smoked through the whole pack in the space of a couple of hours. If some sort of harm had befallen John, Arthur would never forgive himself and neither would Dutch or Hosea. The forest was huge, thick pine trees obscured their vision. It would take ages to search thoroughly and nightfall was rapidly sweeping across the land. Even worse, an afternoon snowfall erased John’s boot prints. All he could do was hope that where human eyes failed, a dog’s nose would succeed.

“Now Dutch, there aren’t any bears in this forest.” Hosea buttoned up his coat. “I’m sure John’s alright. Arthur said he bundled him up. He won’t freeze. Why I bet the boy probably just got lost and is waiting for us to find him.”

Arthur did not even hear Dutch’s response. All he could think about were all the possible ways John could severely injure or kill himself out here. What if John climbed up a tree, slipped, and broke his neck? What if he was laying frozen on the ground somewhere? What if he fell into the river that cut through the forest? They would never find him. The longer the search dragged on, the darker the scenarios in Arthur’s mind became.

Only when Copper started barking and dashed ahead, did Arthur allow a spark of hope to ignite inside. In the distance, a flickering light shone through the darkness. John was sitting by a small fire, face full of glee as he petted Copper. He was safe. The boy jumped up and ran to Dutch and Hosea, hugging them both before the two launched into a garbled mixture of love, relief, and admonishments. John resorted to nodding while staring down at his feet, face beet red, mumbling sincere apologies. Not wanting to intrude on the family reunion, Arthur hung back, bending down to scratch behind Copper’s ears and along his neck, just the way he liked. While Arthur would never consider himself a lucky man, he certainly had lucked out in the dog department.

“That’s an alright fire.” Arthur said, crossing his arms after the fifth time John sent a shy glance his way. “Guess you’re not completely useless.”

Dutch and Hosea looked ready to gag Arthur until John ducked his head, then perked up with a cheeky grin. “Alright? Reckon it’s better than any _you_ could make.”

\--

Hours of worrying had left Arthur drained, so of course tonight was one of those hellish nights were sleep was but a dream. Thoughts whirled around like a tornado. When would the snow stop? They were supposed to be too far south for this nonsense. Would they have to relocate camp again? What if they hadn’t of found John? What if they didn’t have Copper? Would Dutch and Hosea forgive him for his actions today? Could he forgive himself? Why did John forgive him so easily?

Soft paddling of feet along the cold ground jerked Arthur out of his woolgathering. John, so wrapped up in his blanket that only his face showed, approached. Painstakingly slow, he sank down and tried to slip into his bed as quietly as possible.

“What do ya think you’re doing?” Arthur grumbled sharply, snickering when John gasped and jumped back. “Didn’t hear you tossin’ and turnin’.”

“I—I didn’t know you were awake,” he paused, pulling his blanket tighter. “I’m cold.”

After a long moment, he gave an over dramatic sigh and lifted the blankets. John practically dove in. Truthfully the extra body heat was welcomed, but he didn’t want to let on he was grateful.

“Arthur?” His voice was muffled. The boy was so cold he remained underneath the covers.

“Hm?”

“Did your Pa teach you about fire?”

He snorted. “Never taught me nothin’.” Other than how to hurt and hurt others; how to leave lasting scars that were felt but not seen. “Dutch and Hosea are the only teachers I’ve ever had.”

John poked his face out from under the blankets, positively beaming. “So one day I’ll be like you?”

Arthur’s jaw clenched so hard it was a miracle his teeth didn’t shatter.


	3. How to Love and Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives two very different lessons courtesy of Arthur and Dutch.

The soft scratch of charcoal on paper was like his heartbeat after a shootout or the lasting throb of a punch square in the jaw, a reminder that for better or worse, Arthur was still alive. Familiar as the crack of a gunshot, it soothed him in the way whiskey burns, from the inside out and left him wanting more. When Hosea first placed a leather-bound notebook in his grubby hands, the intention was for Arthur to build upon his limited vocabulary. Instead he took to drawing the world around him; the goal of writing reduced to scribbles that merely detailed days gone by.

Pages rustled with the breeze and his eyes fluttered shut. A moment in the shade of a tree on a hot summer day was something to be thankful for. Beneath his fingers, a campfire grew. The warmth from yesterday still kindled within; the five of them singing off-key late into the night. Dutch asked John if he knew any songs and the boy burst into this ridiculously bawdy tune he picked up while roaming the streets of Chicago. Hosea and Miss Grimshaw shared a look of fond exasperation—which Arthur was determined to recreate—while Dutch laughed and laughed, his face painted in a red glow.

As he shaded in the wisps of smoke, something small hit his head. An acorn. Arthur held it in his palm. Far too green to be ripe enough to fall. Odd. He blinked as another one bounced off his hat. Followed by another. Arthur grimaced and looked up. Sure enough that squirrely bastard was there, grinning like an idiot as he hung upside down.

“Whatcha drawin’?” John tilted his head, devilish mouth twisted with curiosity.

“Boy, get on down here!” Arthur snapped his journal shut. “Can’t get five God damn minutes to myself without you—”

John dropped right into Arthur’s open arms. The fool cackled, oh-so-pleased with his perfect landing until he was tossed aside unceremoniously and landed with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. He shook off the dazed expression like a dog ridding itself of water, black hair flailing in every direction before he jumped to his feet. Teeth bared, eyes aflame; John was always wavering between fight or flight. Arthur rolled his eyes and strode right past, denying him either option.

Twelve. Thirteen. Didn’t make a lick of difference. John was just as wild and thick-skulled as ever. Perhaps the latter was a blessing—saving him from any lasting damage given his talent for accumulating blows to the head. John shot Arthur a nasty sneer as he hurried by. Although he had gained an inch, the brat was still far too small. Clad in hand-me-downs, the fabric hung loosely on his twig-like frame. The sleeves were like wings and along with the legs, always used to unravel no matter how many times John rolled them up. One day Miss Grimshaw snapped, stole the clothes, and put a few stitches here and there, ending Arthur’s ceaseless teasing.

Nose deep in their latest plan that apparently involved a bunch of maps, Dutch and Hosea did not even look up as John ran by calling for Copper. The corners of Arthur’s lips curled. If the racket the brat was making didn’t disturb them in the slightest, surely neither man would notice if Arthur slipped out for a bit. It’s not like he would be missed. Arthur lacked the brains for scheming up plans, only good at executing them.

His hulking figure was about as subtle as a bear strolling down a street, but somehow Arthur managed to sneak past without even garnering a glance. Grace, his chestnut Tennessee Walker, nickered and Arthur instinctively pressed a finger to his lips.

“Shh, girl. Want me to get caught?” Arthur stroked her muzzle softly, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “Nah, you’re just excited to stretch your legs, aren’t ya?”

“Where you going?” John practically shouted. Copper was by his feet, the wag of his tail sped up as Arthur glimpsed down briefly. Grace was unfazed, but Admiral and Lady Luck looked ready to take a bite out of John.

“I’m literally right in front of you.” Arthur pinched his brow. “Why you always gotta talk so loud?”

He crossed his arms. “I don’t talk loud!”

Arthur shushed him, shooting a quick glance over at Dutch and Hosea. They had no idea their oldest son was mere seconds away from binding and gagging their youngest. Day in, day out, the brat stuck to him like glue and harassed him like a schoolmarm. What are you doing? Where are you going? Why are you always so grumpy? Who are the people in those photographs? What’s wrong? Why are you sad again? Ignoring, insulting, answering truthfully—all had the same result. No matter how many times Arthur swatted him away, John was a mosquito that kept coming back.

“Why do you talk to horses like they’re people?”

“They make for better conversation than the damn raccoon always followin’ me around.”

“I’m not a racoon!” John protested, though his scrunched up face suggested otherwise. He bit his lip. “You gonna go draw flowers again?”

Damn it.

“No.”

“Can I come?” John grabbed his arm. “I’m bored! I wanna go for a ride.”

“No.”

“I’ll be good, I promise!”

Arthur ripped his arm free and bent down to John’s eye level. “It’ll be a frosty day in hell before I take ya with me.”

\--

John was back to singing that bawdy song, holding onto Arthur’s middle as Grace breezed across an open field. He wanted to tell the tone-deaf fool to shut up, but the risk of losing two arguments in one afternoon to a thirteen-year-old was a little too much for his pride to bear. Likely the brat would only sing louder. It was bad enough John’s threat to alert Dutch about Arthur sneaking off had worked like a charm. Copper followed alongside, just as excited to get out of camp as the boy was. The small meadow with its pockets of orange and yellow marigolds lay not far off. Arthur had to get rid of him somehow if he wanted to enjoy some peace and quiet.

“Wanna try ridin’ by yourself?”

John’s singing halted. “You—you trust me enough?”

“No,” Arthur snorted as he slowed Grace. “But she’ll buck ya off if you do anythin’ stupid.”

The grip around his stomach tightened and Arthur rolled his eyes. Grace had his trust; the only horse of theirs with enough patience for John’s inexperience and idiocy. Both Admiral and Lady Luck refused to let the erratic boy mount, let alone ride them.

“Stay where I can see you.”

At first his plan seemed to work. Arthur’s sour mood melted away with every stroke of the charcoal and the campfire lit up his journal. Copper lounged beside him, enjoying the absentminded petting and soft words. Unfortunately, a force greater than himself kept dragging his attention back to the city boy with a bad case of nerves. Circling the meadow at a canter—too fast for how green he was, but John could never take things slow—he was doing a fine impression of an owl and accidentally bouncing in his seat.

Mindful of the flowers, Arthur strolled over. “Well, now I know what a corpse would look like on horseback.”

John gave him a dumbfounded stare as he flew by.

“It’s a joke, you idiot! You’re stiff as—never mind. Look, slow the hell down and quit bein’ scared. Also, you’re in for a sore ass if you don’t loosen up. Hard muscles always bounce.”

“I’m not scared!”

Arthur’s lips pulled back into a sneer. “Don’t lean forward either. That’ll make you bounce too. Sit up straight, fool. Loosen up that death grip too and stop pullin’ the reins so much. Use your body to tell her where you wanna go.”

John’s face grew redder by the second. “Am I doing anything right?”

“Ain’t sittin’ on your head so that’s a start.”

John scowled loudly but corrected his posture, pace, and grip. Sure enough, the ride became smoother, which only made the brat pout more. “Why are you so good at everything?”

Arthur burst into laughter. “I’m good at shootin’ and dealin’ with horses. That’s it.”

John frowned but said nothing. If there was one thing they had in common, it was that neither were good with words. As he rode, his dark eyes flickered to Arthur often. A search for praise undertaken in vain. Arthur gave him nothing. A lack of corrections should suffice. Besides, John was hardly starved considering how Dutch and Hosea fawned over him constantly. John still had trouble using his body to control Grace’s direction. Arthur would have to give an in-the-saddle demonstration later. What pleased him though was when he stopped following alongside, the boy stayed relaxed. Maybe Arthur could turn him into a fine rider one day.

“Did you call her Grace because she’s graceful?” John asked, jumping off like a fool rather than waiting for Arthur to help him down.

“She’s graceful alright,” Arthur tied the reins to a tree. Grace nibbled at the grass while he unsaddled her. “That’s it, girl. Eat as much as you like—I named her after Grace O’Malley. She was an Irish pirate who gave the British a hard time.”

John giggled as he flopped down and rolled around a bit, pillowed by the tall grass. He stopped when Arthur sat by him, limbs sprawled out in every direction. “My father hated the British ‘cause of what they did to his great-grandparents back in Scotland.”

 “You miss your Pa?” Arthur asked, testing the waters. John kept his past under lock and key; questions met with agitated silence. Arthur was curious, but he saw too much of himself in the boy to pry. Reopening old wounds was to endure the pain again and again. All he knew, thanks to Arthur shaking him awake after one particularly horrific nightmare, was that John found himself in an orphanage at the age of eight but ran away after a year and a half.

John was quiet for a long while, staring at the sky, before he sat up. “Not really. He hated me.” Covered in grass, he plucked a blade off his shirt and began to break off tiny pieces while big hands brushed flecks of green off his hair and back.

There was always that uncertainty. Was it better to open up or keep everything inside? Arthur preferred to bury memories in the hopes of forgetting, not wanting to burden others, but the holes he dug were never deep enough. Before him however a clam was opening up, ready to offer its pearl with ease. An undeserved gift that Arthur didn’t take for granted. He remained quiet and attentive.

“He always went on ‘bout how I’m worthless and ate up all his money. Always drinking and fighting. Got himself blinded in a bar fight. He—” Chest raising and falling rapidly, John threw the pieces of grass aside. Every word uttered and those still trapped got him more and more worked up. Arthur was about to tell him to forget about it when John blurted out, “He hated me ‘cause I killed my mother when I was born.”

A loud exhale blew from Arthur’s nose as rage shot up his throat like heartburn. His anger at John’s father was quickly overrun by remorse however as his own cruel words and jokes swirled around in his head like some hellish song.

John misread his silence. “I—I didn’t mean to! Sometimes I wish I hadn’t been born then—”

“Look at me.” John refused until Arthur grabbed his bony shoulders. The boy didn’t deserve this sort of guilt hanging over his head. “Sometimes bad things happen. Things you got no control over. Life’s hardly ever fair and what happened to your Ma is awful and I’m sorry, but I want you to put what your Pa said right outta your head. It ain’t your fault, you hear?” John nodded with downcast eyes. “Say it.”

He hesitated, but then met Arthur’s hard stare. “It’s not my fault.”

Arthur cursed himself for not knowing what to say next, especially when John gave him a grateful smile. How is it that someone who has never felt much love had a heart too big for his body? Arthur could only imagine the sort of person he would be if he never knew Beatrice. Although her love was brief, its warmth had been his life raft when he was lost out at sea; an unwanted street urchin with no future, no hope, and no will to live until Dutch and Hosea saved him from drowning.

The only thing he could think to do was change the subject.

“Wanna know the real reason I talk to horses?” John nodded. “I want ‘em to feel safe with me and know I appreciate what they do. Ain’t easy bein’ a horse, especially with what I put her through. I know Grace don’t understand what I say. That’s why I treat her with respect. Actions speak louder than words. If I was a horse and my owner was a bastard, I’d buck ‘em off first chance I got.” His voice faltered. “Probably sound stupid, huh?”

“No,” John replied instantly. “Animals got feelings too. Same as humans—who’s that?”

Over his shoulder, Arthur spied shadows before they vanished. Instantly on his feet, he bounded towards the trees, six-shooter in hand. Grace raised her head, ears swiveling as the two ran by. John remained with him as they searched all over, but ultimately found no one. Although they returned to camp safely, Arthur remained on edge long after.

\--

“That’s some fine shooting, Artie.” Dutch smiled, standing back with Hosea and John by his side. A large buck slumped over courtesy of a bullet to the back of the head.

“Weren’t nothin’.” Arthur slung his Winchester over his back. “Any fool could make that shot.”

Hosea gave a frustrated sigh while Dutch waved a dismissive hand. “You’re the only person I know who is more comfortable receiving insults rather than praise.”

A deep blush burned its way up from his chest to the roots of his hair. He tugged the brim of his hat down before Dutch helped him hoist the animal onto Admiral. Stoic as ever, the Arabian was hardly bothered by his new load. Arthur lightly pat the black gelding’s neck, wanting to say he’ll accept praise when it’s due but didn’t think talking back to Dutch was a good example to set.

“We gonna shoot anymore?” John asked, voice riddled with excitement.

Hosea shook his head. “The gunshot would have scared off all the other animals.”

“This buck here is plenty.” Dutch clamped a hand on John’s shoulder. “Greed is a poison, son. It can destroy a man from the inside out. Deprive a forest of its animals. Rob a land and people of their freedom. Only take what you need in life, John. Remember that always.”

Arthur and Hosea shared a look, knowing what was coming.

“I will.”

“Good,” Dutch grinned slowly. “That’s why we don’t steal from folks who have nothing. The good people of this land, those who work hard and care about their common man. They deserve the spoils of life. That’s why we share our wealth with them. People who are filled with greed and hate, those who make their fortunes off the backs of others and manipulate their fellow man to achieve their desired ends—they take more than what they need in life. Those people are leeches, son, bleeding this land dry. That’s why we target them.”

John bit his lip. “So stealing from them is a good thing?”

Arthur could light a fire with the warmth behind Dutch’s eyes. He ran his hand over the boy’s matted hair as if stroking a cat. “A very good thing. They’re the real evil in this country, not folks like us.” He knelt down, holding onto John’s arms. “I want you to absorb everything we teach you so that when the time comes you can fight alongside us. Wouldn’t you like that, John? To be able to protect your family and spread the wealth of this land with those who deserve it?”

“More than anything.”

Arthur peered out wearily from under his hat, watching Dutch ruffle John’s hair, confused by his growing unease. He had heard this speech many times before. Every word of it was true. Why was John’s rapt attention and eagerness to please so unnerving? The heat must be getting to him. It was a mercilessly hot day after all.

\--

“Arthur!” Dutch barked. “Get out here!”

“Leave him be!” Hosea retorted, only halfway through stitching up a gaping wound on Arthur’s left arm. His hold was firm but reassuring. You’ll be fine, it said. Just need some rest. Bleeding, bruised, and suffocating from the heat trapped in the tent, the pairs of hands on his feverish skin were the only thing keeping Arthur focused. The ice in Hosea’s voice thawed instantly as he glanced down. “Make sure that’s good and tight, son.”

John nodded rapidly as he wrapped a large gash along Arthur’s lower right leg. His fingers fluttered along as if scared any pressure would cause great harm. Hosea was only letting the boy help to keep him calm. His screams for help when Arthur fell from Grace upon arriving at camp would become another lasting scar.

“I should’ve been there,” Hosea mumbled. The way his eyes darted along Arthur dashed the illusion of his outer calm.

“Ain’t so bad. Quit worryin’. Nothin’ important was hit.”

“ _You_ got hit.”

“My own damn fault,” Arthur grunted, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I need to be better.”

“You stubborn fool!” Miss Grimshaw snapped at Dutch. Their shadows moved along the outer walls of Hosea’s tent. “Let me fix that shoulder before you bleed out.”

A simple trip into town turned into a near life-or-death situation as five O’Driscolls descended upon Dutch and himself like locusts. What saved them was that there was about half a brain stretched between those bastards. Fighting back-to-back, they shot their way out and escaped by the skin of their teeth. Arthur sustained most of his injuries hogtying one of those reprobates under Dutch’s orders.

“I believe his hands are quite fine,” Dutch’s voice was dangerously low and brooked no argument. “They are all I require.”

That was that.

Dutch needed him.

Hosea and John protested, following Arthur as he slowly made his way back into the sweltering sun. Trapped somewhere between glee and anger, flaking streaks of dried crimson trailed down Dutch’s face. His sullied shirt stuck to his skin and eyes blazed from the inextinguishable fire within. The prisoner, a gangly, rat-faced degenerate about Arthur’s age, was tied to a thick tree. A fresh black eye and the scrape of a large ring marred his ruddy face, as did a smirk too wide for his present situation.

“Our friend here thinks silence is an appropriate response when asked a question. Why don’t we improve his manners?”

The prisoner laughed until Arthur’s fist snapped his head back, bashing his nose into his skull, bones and cartilage crunched beneath.

Dutch lit a cigar. “Tell me where Colm is hiding.”

Through gushing blood and watery eyes, the prisoner leered even as Dutch blew a ring of smoke at his broken nose. A simple look acted as the wave of a starting flag. One blow came after another. His fists drove forward. Cracking ribs. Smashing teeth. Imprinting bruises. His chest heaved, hands ached, and injuries bled, but Arthur was relentless.

This was what he was really good at.

Dutch watched as if fascinated by this ability to reduce a man to rubble. His half smile called for more and more and Arthur delivered. Charm underscored the question being asked with lazy repetition. There was a swish of a skirt walking away. The prisoner cried out, soon hardly able to stand as Arthur’s battered fist sunk into his soft stomach. Each hit tore his knuckles open further; left his dilapidated soul a little more raw. Arthur saw, heard, and felt it all but none of it sank in. All he could feel was the burn of dark eyes upon his skull.

Beating a man to death was nothing new, but having John there was.

Hosea said something and Dutch raised a slow hand. Arthur froze, panting heavily, body swaying. “Ready to talk? I’m not going to ask again. My patience is at its end.”

“Thank God,” the prisoner slurred, spitting out several teeth. “Fucking tired of hearing your voice.”

They could leave him here. Give the man time to reconsider his vow of silence while having nothing to choke down but his own blood. Pry him open with promises of care, food, and freedom over a series of days—but the prisoner was a dead man even before Arthur bound his hands and ankles. There was no mercy in Dutch today, for the O’Driscolls had set upon his son like a hoard of starved dogs. That loss of control was a death warrant.

Dutch’s hand fell.

Finish him.

Against his better judgement, he peered behind him. A look of expectation. A look of horror. His eyes slammed shut. Both cut Arthur deeper than any blade. There was something deeply wrong with a man who was fine with being a monster so long as others didn’t see.

“Send John away first,” Arthur said softly.

“Aw, want to protect the runt? How sweet.” The prisoner wheezed, red saliva pooling out of his mouth. “Bit late though. Colm already knows all about little Johnny here.”

Arthur grabbed his throat with one hand, ready to squeeze the life out of him, until Dutch cleared his throat.

“You seem to like collecting boys, Van der Linde. Like ‘em young, do you?” The prisoner knew he was standing upon the gallows. Why not make the most of it? “You’ll wanna be careful. Keep a sharp eye. Don’t want the boy to wind up like Annabelle, do you?”

Three things happened at once. Arthur stepped back, Hosea covered John’s eyes, and Dutch put a bullet through the prisoner’s left temple. Shards of skull rained out and blood poured like water from a faucet as his body slumped against the ropes. Swearing under his breath, Dutch stalked off, rubbing his shoulder. Hosea pulled John back into his tent. Arthur’s shoulders slumped as he pulled out a knife, moving towards the corpse under the shade of the tree.


	4. How to Draw Something Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Arthur to the rescue as John's recklessness gets him into trouble over and over. The boy does find time though to steal his brother's journal. Twice.

Spring rains washed away the remnants of a winter that had overstayed its welcome, breathing life back into a land long dead. Birds returned with old songs, raindrops slickened budding trees, mud became inescapable, and fields greened. April was when the year truly seemed anew, not January with its suffocating snow. While the season brought many happy returns, the revival of his secret desire to break away from the stress, the fear, and the marring of what remained of his soul wasn’t among them. These treacherous thoughts could only be smothered by hard truths. Who was he to want such things? Men like him didn’t deserve a fresh start. Most importantly, he could never abandon Dutch, Hosea, or John—especially since the kid had gone full idiot.

Nowadays the fourteen-year-old would sneak off with Grace for a ride. The pair would return to camp exhausted, covered in sweat, and John still had the audacity to get upset when Arthur yelled at him. Other days when climbing was no longer thrilling enough he swung from branch to branch and somehow each fall shocked the hapless monkey just the same. When in town, John would wander away and wind up pissing off someone much bigger. It was always Arthur to the rescue; Arthur who had to deal with the fallout. Little was done to discourage his recklessness. Dutch snapped at him occasionally, Hosea sometimes chided the boy, and Miss Grimshaw would yank his ear every now and then, but it never did any good. Adored and doted upon, murder was his to get away with.

“Gettin’ into trouble is the only thing you’re good at,” Arthur grumbled as he gave John and his sprained ankle a piggyback ride down to the canoe.

“I’m sor—”

“Seriously, swingin’ on trees? You might just be the dumbest fool I ever met. Hope ya break your damn leg next time.”

“Hope I fall on top of you and break your neck!”

The urge to cuff the bastard upside the head was a daily occurrence but his hands always remained still. Arthur was living proof you can’t beat the stupid out of a child. Being trapped at the soggy campsite with little to do was a fine punishment; a harder blow than anything Arthur could have dealt. The restless could not be still. Outside of his writing lessons, petting Copper, and thwarting Miss Grimshaw’s attempts to get him to sew—John purposely did a terrible job so she’d let him alone—the fool spent the last three days doing a fine impression of a corpse. He laid sprawled out on the damp grass, looking as though the world had ended.

“Take the boy with you,” Hosea had said with a sly smile, eyeing the fishing pole in Arthur’s hand. “It’ll be good for John. Been goin’ a bit stir crazy as his ankle heals.”

“You or him?”

Flat as any mirror and just as reflective, Arthur averted his eyes from the lake. He always wanted to avoid the face that was rugged not like a mountain chiselled out of the earth, but like a well-worn trail in the mud, trampled by countless heels and hooves. Instead he focused on rowing, placing bait on their hooks, the smooth wood of their canoe, and John’s inability to sit properly. Scrunched up at an awkward angle, his legs dangled over the side, boots skimming the water.

“You’re gonna get a bad back like that.”

“I’ll worry about that when I’m old like you.”

In no mood for sass, Arthur stretched out along the canoe and blocked the sun from his eyes with his black hat. He doubted the fish would start biting anytime soon. Just as he began to doze off, the silence prodded him sharply. John was being quiet. Too quiet. Turned out, the brat was fully engrossed in his journal.

“How did you—” Arthur snatched it back. “How many times do I gotta tell ya not to touch my journal?”

“Don’t see what the big deal is,” John snapped. “I like lookin’ at the pictures and it’s not like I can read most of what you write.”

“It’s called respectin’ people’s property. How’d ya like it if I rifled through your stuff?”

“Reckon I’d be pretty confused since I don’t have stuff to rifle through.”

Arthur’s mouth snapped shut. Almost nothing belonged to John. Dutch bought him a nice pair of boots as his feet were too small for any of Arthur’s, but that was it. The rest of his clothes were hand-me-downs. The picture books scattered around his bedside were Hosea’s. Everything was borrowed; permission varied. The boy didn’t even have any toys. John was a bit old for that, but he had never complained once when he was younger. If they had the money, Arthur knew Dutch and Hosea would spoil John rotten seeing as they already did, just not with material objects.

“Have any pictures of me in there?”

Arthur snorted, scratching his beard. “Only beautiful or interestin’ things go in my journal.”

“You’re one to talk!”

“Did you see any of me in there, boy? There ain’t any and never will be.”

For some reason, his face fell at this comment. John got all quiet and pouted like an idiot. Maybe the fool was upset he couldn’t think up some snappy retort as usual. A sharp tug at his line pulled Arthur from his woolgathering. Any excitement however was quickly tempered by the fish’s size and the annoyingly contagious fit of giggles John erupted into. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek, but a smile still sneaked its way across his face.

“Cute goldfish, Morgan.”

“You colorblind or just dumb, Marston? That ain’t no goldish. It’s a bluegill.” It flapped and flopped helplessly until Arthur took pity on the little bugger and placed it back in the water.

“It’s called a joke!” John’s words were broken up by laughter. “I guess ya left your sense of humor ashore.”

“Oughta shove your fool ass in the lake. Then we’ll see who’s laughin’.”

“Me still, but from the grave. Dutch’ll murder you good if you drown me.”

Before Arthur could reply, John gasped as he was nearly pulled into the water. His arms wrapped around the boy in the nick of time. The two fell backwards, rocking the boat horribly and sloshing cold water all over themselves. Not trusting the boy to do it right, Arthur pushed John’s hands aside and reeled the line in slowly. The fish was stubborn though, fighting back with all it had. After an impatient grunt, John grabbed the line and ripped it out of the water. A Northern Pike was flung high into the air before it landed hard on the wooden base. Arthur and John stared dumbly at the dead fish.

“Why the hell are you so lucky, kid?”

“To make up for your bad luck, I suppose.”

\--

To meet Dutch’s stare was to gaze at the sun: a bad idea all around. Too bright, too intense; Arthur’s eyes shot soon to the safety of his lap. There was a relentlessness to his mentor; a hunger that could not be sated. Dutch was lightning in a summer storm. His sheer will could batter the earth and leave nothing but charred remains in its wake. Once the man got an inkling of an opportunity, there was no holding him back.

Of course, that never stopped Arthur from trying though, as feeble as his attempts were. “I dunno if goin’ after a new widow is such a good idea. She’s already lost a lot and—”

“Exactly.” His face was alight; electricity likely crackling through his veins at the mere hint of a big score. “She’ll be vulnerable and looking for comfort, which you’ll be more than happy to provide.”

“What if she’s got family ‘round? They’ll sniff me out faster than Copper does squirrels.” The dog in question perked up at his name. “I ain’t no good at cons.”

“He _is_ a terrible liar, Dutch. Our Arthur is too honest for this sort of thing.”

Hosea was calm and tranquil as usual, the gentle rain that followed the torrential downpour. His words were meant as a compliment, meant to soothe, but it felt like an insult. As an outlaw, transparency was yet another failing of his.

“Well, I sure as hell can’t send you, old man, nor myself.” Hosea touched his chest in mock offense and the rest of Dutch’s explanation was accompanied by a smile tugging at his lips. “The girl is barely nineteen. Trust me. She’ll fall head over heels when our young and strapping lad here comes to her rescue.”

John poked his head into the tent. “Wanna go fishing again?”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Arthur growled. “Go on. Get outta here.”

Dutch placed a strong hand on his shoulder as John scampered off. “Just think about what the money could do for us. We’re not monsters. We’re not going to take it all. She’ll still have more than enough to tend to her affairs.” His thumb rubbed small circles into the bone. “I have the utmost faith in you, Arthur. You’ll do this for me, for your family, won’t you son?”

“Sure, Dutch.”

His attention drifted in and out of the conversation regarding the arrangement of this damsel in distress scenario. Although less lucrative, robbing the widow at gunpoint would be preferable. How exactly was he supposed to make her fall for him? Arthur was as good at talking to women as John was at staying out of trouble. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint, but Arthur had no mind for head games nor tricking others into catching feelings.

While Hosea pointed out potential issues and Dutch schemed up solutions on-the-spot, Arthur could have sworn he heard his name. It was soft; a whisper carried upon the wind. For a brief moment he thought he had imagined it, but then it happened again. Just as faint, but so familiar it had the clarity of a thunderclap.

John.

His fathers’ confused voices and his hat fell away as Arthur all but flew from the tent. Swirls of greens and browns hurled by as he chased after the fractured screams. They faded away and the silence hit him like the crash of a wave. The lake glistened under the high sun, indifferent to the danger of its depths, rippled by the wind and Copper swimming south of the overturned canoe. Arthur did not feel the cold nor the way his arms cut through the water as if it was air. He only saw John bobbing lifelessly. The current pushed him around as if he were nothing.

Clothes soaked and heavy, heartbeat wild, and dead weight in his arms, Arthur nearly lost his balance on the jagged black rocks that tore up the shoreline. He sank to his knees and loosened his hold just enough to whack John on the back repeatedly. Hoping to knock the water out of him. Hoping to knock some life back into him. He was too pale, too still. Copper whined loudly.

“Wake up! Come on, Johnny.”

Panic shot through him faster than any six-shooter. He should be used to this; used to the small sparks of happiness in his life being snuffed out. After all the violence, murder, and sorrow, how had his heart not yet hardened into stone? The sight of John was just as raw as a broken neck at the bottom of a staircase, as Dutch staring into beloved eyes gone empty. Unable to withstand the thought of losing yet another, his lungs burned, robbing Arthur of breath.

“Please don’t take him too.”

No matter how much Arthur shook the limp body or pleaded, John would not stir. What should he do? John can’t die. He can’t. Arthur couldn’t lose his brother. Why didn’t he teach John how to swim? Why did he snap at him earlier? Hurried footsteps and anguished yells drew near as Arthur finally gasped for air.

Wait.

Air.

John needed air.

Cursing his stupidity, Arthur laid the boy flat, pinched his nose, and blew into John’s mouth. Dutch and Hosea fell beside him; water soaked their pants. They were the sort of men who cracked jokes while staring down a shotgun barrel, barely broke a sweat when surrounded by lawmen, looked upon the face of death and shrugged. To see their chests heaving, eyes blown wide, and both Hosea and Miss Grimshaw holding Dutch back from grabbing John—it made Arthur all the more frantic. He took one deep breath after another, each time hoping God would hear his silent prayers for once.

John’s eyes shot open. Gasping and sputtering helplessly, Arthur rolled him onto his side as he retched up a belly full of water to joyous cries of disbelief. John was alive. Arthur was so stunned by that simple fact he almost didn’t notice when Dutch pulled the boy into his own arms. Hosea fell backwards slightly and his arms barely supported him as he caught his breath. Arthur sank down as well, sharp stones and mud pressed into his back as exhaustion hit him like a train dead-on. Miss Grimshaw quickly had her hands on his face, but he waved her off.

“It’s alright. It’s going to be alright,” Dutch said firmly, holding John’s face as he stared into the disoriented dark eyes. Watery coughs still racked through his thin body; limbs drooping by his sides.

Hosea gave Arthur’s hand a grateful squeeze, before standing. “Give him here. He needs to rest.”

Dutch hesitated, mouth thinning briefly before he relinquished his grip. Hosea and Miss Grimshaw whisked John away. A great sigh escaped as he ran his hands over his face, then dragged them through his black hair. There was no man more gifted with words than Dutch van der Linde, but when his lips parted nothing came out. The fire in his eyes was closer to the kind that warmed the night rather than his usual blazing inferno. Never able to handle their heat, Arthur looked to the unwaveringly blue sky and waited for his heart to still.

\--

In no time at all John resumed his favorite activity, being Arthur’s shadow, and followed his older brother everywhere except to the lake. His newfound terror of water? Entirely sympathetic. His refusal to take a bath? Less so. No amount of imploring, threatening, or Miss Grimshaw’s preferred method of dumping a bucket of cold water on his head could change his mind. Arthur would never consider himself nor his nose high-strung. Horseshit, body odor, tobacco, decay, and death crossed Arthur’s nose constantly. After three weeks though, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Unwilling to spend another night trapped with the stinking fool, Arthur crept slowly towards the oblivious boy staring into the fire. His black hair hung limply, slick and heavy, obscuring his dirt-smeared face. Although his clothes were fairly clean, you could hardly tell since he reeked of near month-old sweat. Arthur scooped John right off the ground and tossed him over his shoulders.

John’s legs kicked out aimlessly. “Put me down you bastard!”

“Nope.”

“Dutch! Hosea! Help!”

Arthur practically cackled. “They just left for town. Either way they’d be on my side, ya greasy fool. You’re takin’ a bath whether you like it or not.”

He might as well of been carrying a hog with the way John started squealing and flailing—smelt like one too—but thankfully the brat was far too light for the full effect. Meanwhile, the second Arthur uttered the word ‘bath,’ Copper darted straight towards the lake.

“You bastard! Don’t throw me in!” John’s voice and thrashing grew increasingly desperate. “I’ll do what you want! Just don’t throw me in! Please!”

“Huh. Didn’t know you knew the word ‘please.’ Guess Hosea’s vocabulary lessons haven’t been a total waste.”

“Damn you to hell!”

John pounded his fists into Arthur’s back as they neared the lake. Nothing would have given him greater pleasure than tossing the brat in, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he set him down slowly and maintained a firm grip on his arms.

“I’m gettin’ in too. Try to run and you’ll wish ya drowned that day.”

Eyeing the water as though a monster might rise out and drag him into its murky depths, John nodded rapidly. Arthur tossed him a bar of soap, before he started removing his clothes. As he neatly folded his shirt, he noticed John staring at his feet making no attempt to undress.

“Boy, don’t test my patience.”

Cheeks tinted pink and scowling, John slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Arthur turned away, hoping privacy would speed things up. The boy had always been uncomfortable with anyone seeing him naked. Arthur waited until there was a sloshing of water behind him before stripping out of the rest of his clothes. The lake was cold, but thankfully it lacked a bite.

Face scrunched up, eyes shooting daggers, arms crossed over his rail-thin chest, and water up to his bellybutton, John was no different than a feral cat placed in a puddle just itching to hiss and spit at his tormentor. He scrubbed his arms and legs first, wrinkling his nose as the grime slid off, and glaring at Arthur as though it was his fault he was so dirty.

“You don’t gotta stick around, y’know,” John grumbled, trying to untangle a massive knot in the disaster he called hair. “I ain’t gonna run away.”

Arthur gave him a hard look, before swimming after Copper who had a big stick in his mouth. After a bit of effort, he managed to tug the branch away and flung it far. If he didn’t know any better, he’d wager his dog was part fish considering his love of water. While he waited for Copper, Arthur swam around, keeping a close eye on John. The boy was on his knees, bent over, trying to get all the soap out of his hair without sticking his face underwater.

John grimaced at Arthur’s lazy backstroke. “Show off.”

“When you’re less scared,” he snickered, “I can teach you how to swim.”

“I’m not scared! I can swim just as good as you!”

Arthur’s barking laughter made John stand up with his fists clenched. After waving a dismissive hand, he turned away, facing Copper who this time refused to release his prize and growled playfully instead. Arthur shook the stick back and forth until splashing perked up his ears. Over his shoulder, John was trying to swim to him. Damn fool. Always trying to do things before he was ready. Never wanting to learn the ropes. What even was the best way to teach a child to swim? The way Arthur learned—his father tossed him into a river at the age of six—didn’t really seem right.

His form was perfectly fine; arms and legs guided him through the water with ease until a gust of wind sent a small wave into John’s face. The boy sputtered and tried to right himself, standing straight, but his foot could no longer skim the bottom and he slipped under for a brief moment. By his side instantly, Arthur hauled John up. Water had clogged his nose and throat. He coughed hard, snaking his arms around Arthur’s neck as he gasped for air.

“Idiot! Why did you—” Once again Arthur wrapped an arm around the boy, using the other to bring them back to shore. John’s voice was rankled by tears, begging him over and over not to let go. “Shh, s’alright. I gotchu. You’re safe.”

Despite his soft reassurances, John’s pleas did not cease and he clung to Arthur as if his brother might vanish from under him. Sometimes he didn’t understand the boy. Had he ever abandoned John when he needed him? It was hard to be mad though. Guilt pecked away at his flesh, leaving him raw and exposed. Why did he have to laugh? Teasing always brought about an unshakable, stupid desire in John to prove himself. Arthur should damn well know better by now.

\--

The widow con wasn’t a total disaster, but the plan still fell apart spectacularly. She was so thankful for Arthur saving her from those two awful, yet surprisingly eloquent bandits that she gave him well over one hundred dollars. But when he brought her home, her new suitor, the deputy marshal, was waiting for her and recognized Arthur from his wanted poster. Bless Grace and her swift legs.

“I swear you have the worst luck, son.”

“Don’t I know it, Dutch.”

Aside from the money, his trip into town hadn’t been a total waste as Arthur was finally able to do something he had been planning for a while. Inside their tent which thankfully smelled better as John had upheld his promise to bathe more regularly (and avoid deep water), he found the boy laying upside down on his cot. Just waiting to pounce on Arthur to bombard him with questions about the failed job.

“Got you somethin’.” He threw the present at John, bewildering him into momentary silence. The oddly-shaped gift was wrapped in cheap brown paper.

“But—But it’s not my birthday.”

“Don’t need to be someone’s birthday to give ‘em somethin’.”

“But I can’t repay you.”

“It’s a gift.” Arthur pinched the brow of his nose. “You don’t repay people for gifts. Just open the damn thing.”

John tore into the gift with the same enthusiasm Arthur imagined young children tackled Christmas presents. When he pulled out the new satchel, his eyes lit up as if Arthur had given him a bar of gold.

“It’s just like yours!”

“There’s stuff in it too.” Arthur grunted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not a lot. Just matches, a piece of flint, a little medical kit since you can’t go a day without hurtin’ yourself like an idiot. A penny dreadful I thought you’d like. I’ll read it to you. A compass and—” John cackled with glee when he discovered the pocket full of candy. “—Better not eat that all in one day. You’re wild enough as is without a gallon of sugar in your belly.”

John scrambled out of bed and threw his arms around Arthur’s middle. He stumbled backwards, frowning, so taken aback that his arms hung awkwardly by his sides. When was the last time someone hugged him?

“Everyone!” John called out. “Look at what Arthur got me!”

The canvas flap swung back and forth after John hurled himself out of the tent like some damn tornado. Slightly envious of his boundless energy whereas Arthur was tired right down to his bones, he flopped onto his cot and quickly grabbed the frame as it creaked uneasily under him. His hand found the back of his neck again. That went better than expected. Who knew a couple of odds and ends could make someone so happy? John's overly excited voice faded as he blew his way across camp. In this rare moment of peace and quiet, Arthur figured it was a perfect time to sketch.

Turned out John wasn't the only one in for a surprise that night.

On the last page, staring up at him was a cowboy fishing alone in a canoe. More cartoonish than realistic, the bearded figure wore a black hat, looked to be wearing suspenders, and had a satchel at his waist. The cowboy had only caught a small fish, but still bore a large grin. Arthur blinked several times in confusion, before his quip to John about beautiful and interesting things came back to him.

You belong here, the drawing said, and this time Arthur let himself smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Accuracy Note: CPR as we know it was not invented until the mid-20th century. However as early as 1740 mouth-to-mouth resuscitation was the medical recommendation for victims of drowning. [[1](https://www.heartandstroke.ca/articles/the-amazing-story-of-cpr)] [[2](https://cpr.heart.org/AHAECC/CPRAndECC/AboutCPRFirstAid/HistoryofCPR/UCM_475751_History-of-CPR.jsp)]


	5. How to Be a Gentleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bessie Matthews comes for a month-long visit. Arthur inadvertently teaches John about helping others (and how not to drink alcohol) while he struggles to deal with his unwavering loneliness.

There was something about the stars, something so all-encompassing and inescapable as a whirlpool that Arthur could never resist their pull. Nothing, save for maybe Dutch’s wrath in the face of disappointment, made him feel quite so small. This was different though. Whenever his eyes drifted heavenwards on a clear night, Arthur was reminded that he was but a mere spec in an impossibly big universe. Although it may not seem like it down here on earth, all his problems and all his mistakes, they were tiny in the grand scheme of things. Insignificance was a strange sort of comfort.

Hands behind his head, Arthur was stretched out on his bedroll. No tent tonight; his half-finished sketch of John and Copper basking in the campfire’s glow would have to wait. The stars demanded an audience. Flecks of white upon the bluish-black canvas were scattered in swirls that no artist could truly replicate, while scores soared across before fading into oblivion. Arthur was too simple-minded to grasp many of the things Hosea taught him about the stars. He could map out the constellations and use the north star to guide him home, but when talk of outer space and how these celestial events occurred, Arthur was always left with more questions than answers.

Stop thinking.

Just enjoy the damn moment.

Of course, Arthur could never just _be_. He always had to be doing something. Otherwise he got lost in the labyrinth that was his head. Regret, sharp as any blade, had needled him all evening along with his many questions. Worse yet, a cool breeze unusual for late July, had swelled and sent a shiver of guilt up his spine.

His overly talkative hot water bottle was missing.

John begged Arthur to bring him on his hunting trip, undertaken ahead of Bessie’s visit. The refusal was in part due to an unwavering sadness that had settled deep in his bones. Arthur had hoped some alone time would set him right. He also worried he was too soft with John. He almost caved, saying no was strangely difficult, but Dutch and Hosea were little help in teaching the boy he can’t get his way all the time. It was up to Arthur. As usual, John took the slight personally, dug in his heels and lashed out like the spoiled brat he was. He had been glad to leave the snarling and snapping mutt behind.

He should have taken him though. John would have loved this. The boy was fascinated by anything to do with the sky and flying—seeing balls of fire streaking across the horizon would have delighted him. If John were here, he would be using Arthur as a pillow, pointing in excitement every time a new shooting star appeared, as if they weren’t all the same. Solitude hadn’t even helped. The problem was that Arthur wanted to be alone and not alone at the same time and the incompatibility of his desires left him empty.

Loneliness always won out no matter what he did.

\--

The silent treatment was a strange tactic from John’s toolbox of pettiness—bothered him far more than Arthur. The boy always cracked around day three. When it was the other way around, silence wound him up like no other and John went off with a bang; did something stupid just to get Arthur to yell at him. How that was better than silence baffled Arthur, but then again many things about John did. Surprisingly, the boy had held out for five days now. Maybe it had to do with the fresh pair of ears at his disposal.

The ruffles of her dress swished against the tall grass as Bessie walked quietly alongside John. Her gaze was warm enough to light a fire; warm enough to leave a burn. So soft and patient, like the faded eyes that only watched him now from behind a glass frame, trapped forever in a photograph by his bedside.

“Hosea made me stay in bed all day ‘cause it still hurt to breathe even though I coughed up all the water.”

“I would’ve had you do the same thing.”

Hair and eyes like caramel and a lasting love of frilly dresses, Bessie hadn’t changed much over the years. Sweet on the surface but beneath her skin lay a coat of armor; bones steeled over from a life of hard work. She fit into camp like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle, always knowing the right thing to say and do; when to comfort and when to tease back.

 “It weren’t so bad though. Arthur stayed with me the whole time.”

“One day your reckless heart is gonna lead you to a whole heaping of trouble that your brother won’t be able to fix. You need to be more careful, dear.” Bessie wrapped an arm around his sagging shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “You know, I can’t get over how much you’ve grown. I’ll be lookin’ up at you soon.”

Want to make John beam like the sun? There’s your answer. Few things pleased him like hearing he was getting taller. Arthur rolled his eyes as he lifted a heavy haystack. The brat was in for a month full of extra praise. Yet another person who found his wild streak and irrepressible cheek endearing, Bessie doted on him worse than his fathers.

 “Do you think I’ll be as big as Arthur one day?” John asked, trying and failing to keep his voice low.

“No chance in hell,” he grunted, placing the stack near the others. “You’re so damn lazy, I’ll be shocked if ya ever bulk up more than a twig.”

When Arthur was fourteen, Dutch and Hosea had him working like a man twice his size and age from the get-go. Any complaints were met with ire until Arthur fell silent permanently. Put your head down. Get the job done. Deal with it. Meanwhile, minimal effort was all John had to exert to please his fathers. Feeding the chickens. Clearing away the dishes. Tending to the horses. Easy stuff.

“I wasn’t asking you!”

Score one for Arthur in their game of silence. The brat stormed off at full bluster, huffing and puffing and swearing as usual, before going to pout quietly by the horses. Arthur tugged his hat down, but it made for a poor helmet and he still felt the blow of Bessie’s harsh stare.

The boy’s behavior around the horses had changed for the better. John now impersonated Arthur around them, rather than a frantic monkey. He copied everything: the gentle demeanor, the calm reassurances, the soft movements. Normally it brought a smile to Arthur’s face. Not today. Not with John brushing Lady Luck, sneaking not-so-subtle glances at him as if his actions proved he wasn’t the laziest bastard in the Heartlands. Look at me, it said, but Arthur would not. He bent down to haul up another haystack.

“Let me help you with that.”

“I got it, Mrs. Matthews, don’t you bother yourself with this.”

He was under no illusion Bessie couldn’t do this herself, but he would be damned before a guest in camp did heavy lifting under his watch.

Hosea lifted his eyes from the book in his hands. “There’s no point in arguing with him, darling. Our Arthur is a gentleman of the first class.” Arthur snorted so loud it was a wonder a fly didn’t go up his nose. “Make all the barn animal sounds you like. Didn’t you mess up our latest stagecoach robbery because you decided being a knight-in-shining armor was more important?”

Arthur all but threw the hay down. “Now hold on, that ain’t fair.”

Bessie placed a hand on his arm and he almost flinched, immediately embarrassed by his outburst. “I was hardly a knight and it ain’t much a story to tell really.” There was a long pause, hoping Bessie would lose interest. That was not the case and to make matters worse, John stared and even Miss Grimshaw looked up from the carrots she was chopping. Dutch and Hosea were supposed to keep Arthur’s idiocy a secret.

He gave a great sigh. “While waitin’ for the bank coach, I heard a woman scream. Her horse had fallen on her legs, so I pulled her out. I couldn’t, y’know, just leave her there in the middle of nowhere so I brought her home to Valentine.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Felt good ‘til I turned the corner and saw the coach was already at the bank.”

A slew of laughter broke out. “What a kind-hearted young man you are!” Bessie jerked her thumb at Dutch and Hosea. “Thank heavens you were there instead of these two.”

Dutch, who had poked his head out of his tent, raised his dark eyebrows. “My dear, are you suggesting we wouldn’t have rescued that poor damsel?”

“I’m not suggesting, I’m stating.”

More laughter erupted.

“I hope y’all didn’t give him a hard time.” Dutch and Hosea were suddenly very interested in looking everywhere except at Bessie. “Honestly Arthur, you’re quite the gentleman. How do you not have a woman in your life? What’s wrong with the girls out here?”

Arthur lifted the haystack again. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong.”

Not with the girls, at least.

\--

Hard to say what was stupider. Riding back to camp semi-drunk or traversing the campgrounds in the dark. Both were a great way to break one’s neck. With tents haphazardly placed, stumps and logs of felled trees laying about, curves and dips hidden in the tall grass, the fact Arthur had not tripped and woken everyone up was a miracle. Where the hell was his tent? Did it sprout legs and wander off?

Staying in town however, alone in that ramshackle rented room since his lady for the evening had other clients to attend to—just wasn’t an option. Arthur’s face and arms were sore, having been smacked by an embarrassing number of branches on the ride home. Each like a slap to the face imploring him to get his act together. Somehow he felt more empty now than when he first left camp.

A rustling of leaves perked up his ears. Probably just a squirrel. A smart man would carry on in search of his bed and not risk crossing the uneven ground again. So naturally Arthur stumbled on over. He tried to be quiet as a mouse but his footsteps and gait were closer to a disoriented bear. Along the outskirts, John was hunched over and rummaging through a small bush.

“Just what in hell do ya think you’re doin’?” Arthur whispered harshly.

The overgrown racoon jumped to his feet; grubby little hands hidden behind his back. The whites of his eyes, wild and wide, were bright as the moon. “Nothing!”

“Nothin’?” Arthur’s teeth bared as he took careful steps forward. There was extra gravel in his voice, as if his words were being dragged over sharp rocks. “Don’t look like nothin’.”

His retreat was slow, cautious, so unlike John. Arthur’s fingers twitched. It couldn’t last. When the brat stepped on a stick, the snap sprang him into motion. John darted to the right, but big arms ensnared his narrow waist.

“Let me go!” John jerked his body, throwing his head back to try to clip Arthur in the chin. A bottle of whiskey fell from the boy’s clutches.

“Looks like we got ourselves a thief!”

“Let go, you drunk bastard!” John hissed. “I’ll start hollerin’! You gonna be sorry when Dutch finds out you’ve been out drinking.”

An empty threat. John would sooner swim a mile upstream than ever rat out Arthur. He knew just how often Arthur had been sneaking out lately but never told anyone. Instinctively, he still placed a hand over John’s mouth. Normally he could handle the wriggly boy easily and keep him quiet, but alcohol acted like a sludge over his muscles. Like a damn dog though, the brat licked his palm. Arthur snatched his hand away, wiping it on his sleeve in disgust before tightening his hold.

“C’mon, Arthur!” John squirmed, desperation plain in his voice. “I won’t tell! I just wanted to see what the big deal is. Every adult I’ve ever known has been crazy about the stuff.”

Maybe he should let go. The hypocrisy was strong. When Arthur was eleven he stole some liquor for a quick taste. He was stupid like John too. Got caught. A swift backhand from his father knocked both the bottle and him aside.

Arthur just couldn’t let the brat off the hook though. John was too much fun to mess with.

“Y’know what I do to thieves, boy?”

John froze, possibly thinking about that time Arthur broke a man’s wrist upon discovering it deep in his coat pocket. Stubborn and stupid as ever, he stomped on Arthur’s foot and elbowed him in the stomach. A rough shove sent him to the grass with a thud. The brat tried to scramble away, but Arthur placed his boot on his ankle. Not hard, just enough to get John to glance over his shoulder. Arthur pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a decent swig.

“Sometimes I have a drink with ‘em.” His voice was scratchy as he suppressed a dry cough. Body and eyes full of suspicion, John looked ready to scurry off. “What’s wrong, kid? Thought ya wanted a drink? Suppose I can go find some milk instead. There’s a farm just down yonder.”

“Stop calling me that!” He bounced up and snatched the bottle. “I ain’t a kid no more.”

He chugged a whole mouthful. Regret was swift. Arthur stepped back as John’s eyes watered and lips twisted, before he blew it all out in one go. Greasy hair shaking about, he hissed and spat, coughing uncontrollably. Already imbalanced and chest quaking with silent laughter, Arthur fell right on his ass. He bit down on his knuckles as the fool pulled every sort of disgruntled face imaginable.

“That’s what ya get!” Arthur whispered, chuckles escaping him like hiccups. “Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up, _kid_.”

“Tastes like fire!” John ran his tongue along his sleeve repeatedly, giving Arthur a shove as he tried to stand, sending him back down. “Why do you sneak out so much to go—” John spat again. “—drink that shit in town? How could it possibly make you feel better?”

That knocked the laughter right out of him.

“It don’t.”

John fell quiet, hands fidgeting until he plucked up the courage to ask, “Then why do it?”

Arthur could only shrug in response.

\--

Valentine was hardly a blip on a map, let alone a town, but that didn’t mean Arthur tolerated it any better than the larger beasts of civilization. Swirls of dust obscured the makeshift road; fossilized boot and horseshoe prints riddled the dried mud. The skyline was slowly being marred by pockets of houses and businesses practically shooting out of the earth. A man could hardly think with all the ceaseless hammering going on. While Arthur could feel future wrinkles settling in, John was all smiles. Escaping the confines of camp, regardless of destination, always thrilled him.

His presence on this errand running trip—Bessie needed knitting supplies as she had forgotten hers—was a peace offering prompted by guilt over his treatment of the boy as of late. Arthur came to regret this though as John immediately resumed his chatterbox ways. It was almost a relief when they arrived and the brat shut up. As they passed by the new Saints Hotel though, John shyly waved back at the giggling whores loitering on the balcony. Arthur grabbed his arm and dragged him to the general store.

“What did I do wrong now?” John snapped, ripping his arm free.

“You was born wrong, Marston.” Arthur bent down to the confused boy’s eye level. “Remember the rules. No runnin’ or stealin’. Don’t bother any of the customers. Don’t give no lip to the storekeeper. You’re gonna stick by my side, spend that pocket change Mrs. Matthews gave you, and behave. Got it?”

“Yes, _mom_.”

Naturally, John broke the rules upon entry, leaving Arthur to make a beeline for the candy. He gave the brat a dark look before scanning the shelves. Rows upon rows of canned goods, fresh food, tobacco, and liquor. Where the heck was the yarn?

“You starving or something, kid?” The storekeeper stared openly at John, who began eating his chocolate bar seconds after placing his money down on the counter.

Engrained from his days when he didn’t know when his next meal would be, the boy had a habit of not stowing away food, preferring to eat straight away. His dark eyes narrowed and he shoved the rest of the bar in his mouth like a damn chipmunk before joining Arthur. He gave John’s shoulder a squeeze that was half sympathetic, half a silent plea not to start anything.

He pretended not to notice when John slipped a chocolate bar into his satchel, knowing Arthur never splurged on himself.

When a short, elderly woman with cloud-like hair and a thick shawl attempted to reach for some canned peaches, Arthur easily plucked it off the top shelf for her. “How many of those ya want? I can grab anything you like.”

“Why thank you, young man. I don’t want to trouble you and your young friend here.”

He waved his hands. “No trouble, mam. We ain’t in a rush.”

Arthur helped the woman fill her wicker basket while discussing their mutual distaste for how fast the town was growing. John helped too until something outside caught his eye and he wandered to the window. When Arthur placed the full basket to the counter, there was a loud shriek from up the street. The door was thrown open with a bang, causing the storekeeper and the old lady to jump.

“For the love of—” Arthur stormed outside. “Marston! Get back here!”

The little devil had vanished. In the distance, a blonde woman was yelling about a thief. Her curls bounced and she grasped her bright red skirts while running in pursuit of a man whose long legs were swiftly carrying him away. The thief dodged horses and onlookers unimpeded until John came out from behind the partially constructed doctor’s office and crashed right into him. The man fell over, swearing violently as John snatched the purse out of his hands and gave him a kick in the thigh. John tried to run, but the thief’s hands shot out, grabbing the boy’s thin legs. Down he went as well.

“Get away from him!” Arthur ripped the bastard off of John. He threw him aside and swung his boot into the man’s ribs several times, causing him to twist and cry out in anguish.

“Jesus Christ! Calm the hell down!” The thief clutched his chest, trying to roll away.

Arthur grabbed his shirt and hauled him up like a rag doll. “Tellin’ me to “calm down” is a fine way to get me to do the exact opposite.”

Arthur punched him in the jaw, snapping his head back, just as a woman called out to him.

“Don’t do it! He ain’t worth it!” Words broken by heavy panting, the owner of the purse pressed a hand to her heaving breasts—highly visible thanks to a neckline far south of tasteful—and staggered towards them. “The sheriff is on his way. Don’t give yourself an assault charge for this fool.”

It wasn’t the woman’s plea nor the threat of the law that made Arthur let go. It was John tugging at his arm. Muscles still taunt and lungs seething, Arthur dropped the bastard and gave him one last sharp kick in the ribs before letting the sheriff take over.

\--

Even the storekeeper seemed to notice the tension between Arthur and John; thick enough that you’d need an axe, not a mere knife to cut through. He eyed them wearily as they plucked Bessie’s requested items from the shelves.

As always, John snapped first. “Why are you mad now?”

“You’re a shit-for-brains idiot, that’s why! You don’t think. Ever. Just charge straight on ahead into danger. To hell with the consequences.”

“I just did what I thought you would do!”

A slap to the face would have stung less. Arthur’s mouth shut as fast as it had opened and John crossed his arms, daring him to deny it. Deep down Arthur was proud John jumped in to help a stranger, but he couldn’t tell him that, could he? Praise seemed like a sure-fire way to encourage more recklessness from the boy. What if that thief had a knife on him? Arthur ran his hands over his face and gave John a tired look before retreating into the safety of silence.

Knitting supplies in hand, they quickly left the store—only to be confronted by the woman.

“Y’all disappeared so quick, I didn’t get a chance to thank you.” She reached into her purse, but then raised her eyes to Arthur’s. “Listen handsome, I only got a few dollars in here—that man was a fool to rob me—but I have a better idea. Why don’t you stop on by the Saints Hotel?” She gave John a wink. “It’ll be on the house and there’s a young one too for your friend.”

There were so many things wrong with what she just said that Arthur blinked stupidly for a solid moment, before the cogs in his brain resumed turning. Arthur may be a shit older brother, but he knew enough that a brothel was no place for a fourteen-year-old.

Given how much his face was burning, his cheeks likely matched the woman’s dress. “Uh, no thank you, ma’am. Appreciate it, but, uh, we actually need to go. Like right now.”

Before John could pipe up, Arthur grabbed him. “Damn it! I’m gonna have bruises all over my arms ‘cause of you!” The brat dragged his heels the whole way back to the livery stable.

It was only after riding in silence for a good ten minutes that Arthur finally managed to speak up. “I ain’t mad.”

“Really?”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder and gave him a curt nod. John ducked his head, only to look back up with a big smile. One that quickly turned sly.

“Why did the lady want us to go to the hotel?”

Oh no.

Oh _hell no_.

Arthur was not having this conversation with John.

“Ask Dutch.” Wait. No. God no. “Actually, ask Hosea. Don’t get any advice about women from Dutch. Ever.”

John burst into a fit of giggles and Arthur strongly suspected the little bastard knew a lot more than he was letting on.

\--

Two pairs of joined silhouettes stretched low along the ground, carrying the same bite as a snake in the grass. Dutch and his lady of the evening were speaking in low voices, while Hosea had his arm wrapped around Bessie’s waist and her head laid upon his shoulder. He turned slightly to kiss her forehead, looking at his wife like he couldn’t believe she was real and not a figment of his imagination.

The thing that struck Arthur most was that Hosea didn’t change when Bessie came to visit. Sure, he smiled a heck of a lot and was more tolerant of Dutch’s bombast, but that was it. The smooth-talking, roaming outlaw and the no-nonsense, happily settled homesteader led incompatible lives, but neither forced the other to change. They accepted one another for who they were and who they weren’t. Sometimes Hosea would leave for a while and live with her, other times she would stay with them. The rest of the time they were separate yet somehow their love never wavered.

Must be wonderful to be so loved that time and distance were immaterial.

Arthur stood alone in the dark, eyes shifting back and forth between the horses and his tent while his nails pierced the flesh of his palm. There was nothing stopping him from returning to Valentine to drown out the burning in his chest with cheap liquor at the saloon; nothing stopping him from stopping by the Saints Hotel to inform the lady in red he had changed his mind. His legs remained frozen. Both paths had been walked down enough times to know they led nowhere good. If only it was daytime, then Arthur could bury himself in work.

“Arthur! Arthur! Look at this!” John hurried over, smiling as though he had struck gold, holding something inside his hands. When he opened them, a firefly flew out and its vibrant yellow hovered before their faces.

“I’ve never seen one before! Aren’t they neat?” John’s smile vanished when the bug departed for the skies. “I found it buzzing around our tent. I wonder if there are any others?”

For the first time that evening, Arthur grinned. “Let me show you somethin’.”

He led John through the trees and down a long slope. Copper ran after them. The boy asked at least twenty times where they were going but fell silent upon reaching the open meadow. Hundreds of fireflies flickered over the wide sprawl. The night sky was above and before them; a multitude of stars they could reach out and touch. John was so mesmerized by the illuminated field, Arthur had to give him a little push forward. The two walked together slowly, trying to disturb the bugs as little as possible.

While watching John try to catch another firefly, Arthur realized the ache in his chest was gone. He picked at a piece of lint on his shirt, feeling ridiculous for resorting to spending time with a child to cheer himself up. At the same time though, was there any place he’d rather be? It was hard not to smile at John’s determination to capture one firefly after another. He stretched out in the soft grass next to Copper and began to memorize the scene before him. Arthur would sketch it the first chance he got.

 


	6. How to Deal with Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and John support one another when loss threatens their family. Also, why Dutch and Hosea thought it would be a good idea to give that fool a gun for his fifteenth birthday was beyond Arthur, but here we are.

While there was nothing quite like the thrill of a big score, the glimmer of pride in his mentors’ eyes, or John’s rapt attention during the retelling, those dizzying heights couldn’t compare to his beloved plateaus. Where time was as flat and familiar as the rolling plains, stretching onwards unimpeded until the land met the horizon. Greeting mornings on horseback, chasing his shadow as he rode away from the sun. Afternoons spent with his rifle in hand, an unsuspecting deer in his sights. Dutch and Hosea shooting the breeze around the evening campfire, their prowess with language flowering their stories with an eloquence worthy of envy. Nights where John slept soundly; the hangman’s noose, deep water, and the hands of those who had harmed him temporarily forgotten. Only in the stillness of routine, of knowing what lay ahead did the rampant fear in his heart settle.

There was safety in sameness, but it never lasted.

It started with John’s birthday. No surprise this year as to what his gift would be, an old promise required fulfillment. Although he no longer bounced with childish excitement, when the revolver was placed in his now fifteen-year-old hands, his dark eyes sparked with mischievousness.

What sort of hell were they about to unleash?

In a forest clearing, Hosea placed six tin cans at different heights and distances along branches and bushes. Pearls of wisdom rolled off Dutch’s tongue as he manipulated John’s arms and hands to his liking. Leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, Arthur felt like he was watching a play of his life—just with a different actor in the role of the inexperienced gunslinger.

“You’re thinking too much.” Hosea pointed at John’s body; too rigid for a good shot. “You need to breathe, son. Take your time.”

Dutch squeezed John’s shoulder. You got this, it said. Have faith.

Whereas those unspoken words would have placated him, John still turned to Arthur. How the boy was able to draw confidence from a mere shared glance was baffling, but he did. He always did.

Unable to do anything slow, six shots were fired in rapid succession, swiftly blasting the cans away. All except one. John bit his lip and hastily ejected the empty casings. His fingers fumbled, dropping one as he reloaded the cartridge chamber, but in the end a single bullet took out the stubborn lingerer. Arthur and Hosea shared a muted look of disbelief, chests still as if the air had vanished. Or perhaps Dutch inhaled it all, given how he swelled with pride.

Thick eyebrows quirked, Dutch grinned around his cigar and clapped the boy on the back. “Make ‘em dance, son. Shoot those cans off the ground.”

John did just that and then some, shooting everything Dutch and Hosea instructed: trunks of trees, lone leaves, awkward branches, crumpled cans tossed high. If he missed, the next shot usually rang true. Wide eyed like an animal shocked a predator had managed to sneak up on them, when his fathers began to dole out praise in heaps and it became apparent this wasn’t beginner’s luck, John’s lips twisted into that annoying cocksure grin of his. Little Johnny Marston. The kid who can’t swim, can’t read or write with ease, can’t chop wood properly, can’t shut up, can’t do shit—can shoot and shoot well.

“Just think about it, Hosea,” Dutch exclaimed as they headed back to camp. Although John rode in with Arthur and Grace, he sat now on Admiral; head held high like some damned knight returning from battle. “With John watching our backs, we’ll have more maneuverability. The law won’t be able to touch us. We’ll be damn near unstoppable!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Giving Johnny a gun is one thing, involving him in jobs is quite another.”

This conversation was hardly unexpected. There had been something unsettlingly familiar about the way Dutch watched John shoot at the targets. The gears churning behind those stormy eyes creaked loud and clear. It was the same look he had leveled at the boy when they rescued him. Finger-shaped bruises, bloodied clothes, concave stomach, distrustful stare—merely grit concealing the jewel beneath. In the same manner he had seen the brutish killer inside a shy fourteen-year-old delinquent, somehow Dutch had known the feral little creature was cut from the same cloth, full of fire that could be harnessed into a weapon.

Wasn’t it Dutch though who taught him not every opportunity was worth pursuing? Just because the kid could shoot straight didn’t mean they should immediately throw him into the thick of things. Grace stirred beneath him, as if scolding Arthur for the sudden tension in his body.

“Did we not just witness the same thing? The boy is a natural! I certainly couldn’t shoot like that at fifteen. Hell, neither could Arthur—”

“Dutch—”

“Lord knows it has been a long, long time since the day you first held a gun, Mr. Matthews, but I doubt you were a born shootist. Naturally John’ll need more lessons but—”

“Dutch.” Hosea brought Lady Luck to a halt. “This isn’t up for discussion.”

A sharpness belied the calm face and voice, cutting through any possible retort. Behind the placid exterior and polite demeanor was a man of resoluteness, driven by a cold fury that had led him down the path of crime in the first place. Willing to bend when necessary, compromise was not in the cards today. John was Hosea’s son too. Dutch would have to square with the fact that the older father would not budge on this and no amount of arguing nor pouting from the brat would change that.

The problem though was that either through will or time, Dutch would eventually get his way. Change was sometimes like an abandoned house, decaying, falling apart with the passage of time. Sure, Arthur could sit back and wait for the inevitable, but that wasn’t him. Arthur was the type to try to reinforce the foundation and collect the broken pieces until it all came tumbling down upon him.

\--

“God damn it, Arthur! Slow down!”

He had to laugh. John usually begged him to go faster and faster, loving the thrill of flying across a field. Atop a galloping Grace, John’s left arm was snug around Arthur’s middle as he fired at stolen paint cans spread along a ridiculously lengthy fence. Copper trailed behind, barking excitedly despite not being able to keep up. Since his birthday, Arthur had been supplementing John’s shooting lessons with his own. It had to be done. The more John learned, the safer he would be. It was yet another secret between the brothers; not wanting Hosea to feel undermined nor Dutch emboldened. Truth be told, Arthur was trying to make it harder, having his girl weave and reach speeds she seldom explored. Whenever the boy did well, he became a shit-talking, swagger-walking pest. In the end, John only hit three of the ten targets, but that was three more than either thought he would get.

“Look at that one!” John hopped off Grace with ease, inspecting the can that had exploded. A splatter of white paint covered the grass. He blew away an invisible stream of smoke from his revolver, then slipped it back into his holster. “Damn, I’m good. Bet if we did it again I could get ‘em all.”

Arthur purposely ignored him, choosing to rub Grace’s neck lovingly. “You’re a good girl, darlin’.”

“How do you think I did?” John asked, adjusting the loose gun belt on his hips. Arthur bought it with the future in mind; the string bean had to fill out eventually.

“Christ.” Arthur snorted. “Ain’t had enough ass kissin’ already?”

John’s brows furrowed and he blinked stupidly as Arthur joined him on the ground.

“Want a round of applause? Another pat on the back?” He bristled, placing a cigarette between his lips. “Being able to shoot don’t mean shit.”

John’s lips curled into a snarl that would make a wolf proud. “Sound kinda jealous, Morgan.”

“Of what?” Smoke billowed from Arthur’s nose like a bull. “Real life ain’t target practice, Marston. Tin and paint cans can’t shoot back. People don’t stay still. I almost wish Hosea’d let ya come on a job, just to knock the smug look off your spotty face.”

“You’re an asshole, y’know that?” John invaded Arthur's space, glaring upward. His head now reached Arthur's chin. When did that happen? “I asked a simple question. You don’t need to fly off the fucking handle.”

“Keep up with that lip, boy, and you’ll be walkin’ back to camp.”

John shrugged, something he had been doing a lot lately. “Whatever.”

He hopped over the fence to cut across the property. Arthur took a long drag, then quietly told Copper to follow the brat. Lately John had been picking his fights. Only certain things were worth lashing out over. Other habits had fallen to the wayside too. Shrieks of delight while being chased were gone, as was his love of rolling around, climbing trees, and the twigs and leaves that often adorned his body. On their own, these little changes were improvements but together they were unnerving. Arthur ground his cigarette into the dirt as if it had personally offended him, annoyed he couldn’t understand his own malaise.

As Arthur rode back, the crack of a gunshot and loud barking immediately had him retracing his steps. What sort of madness had that fool gotten himself into now?

In the distance, two idiot snakes were trying to shake their rattles louder than the other. A large figure with a ready pistol stormed forward, speaking only in angry yells. Vulgarity and sass streamed from John; revolver aimed at the rancher’s head. Arthur’s heart pounded with the hooves battering the earth, beat accelerating as they drew near.

“For the last time, get the hell off my property or I’ll shoot!”

“Get off my ass, you crazy bastard! I’m just walkin’. Ain’t gonna steal your horses or whatever the fuck you’re worried about.”

Only John would further antagonize a man aiming a loaded gun at his face. Worse yet, the kid was all false bravado. The once steady hand now trembled at the possibility of shooting something that breathed. Not wanting John to get himself killed or for a murder investigation to force them from the area, Arthur shot the pistol clean out of the rancher’s hands. John barely had time to gasp before being grabbed by the scruff of his shirt and tossed onto Grace unceremoniously. The rancher scrambled for his firearm. Arthur grit his teeth and rode hard south. Bullets whizzed over his head, but Arthur ducked and Grace zigzagged. John was swearing so furiously, trying to hold on and right himself, likely every bible in a ten-mile radius had burst into flames. When his thin arms finally circled around Arthur, they soared over the fence and disappeared into the darkening landscape.

“I swear,” Arthur spat. Fear left a sour taste in his mouth. “You attract trouble like flowers attract bees. That’s your God-given talent, not shootin’. Can’t leave you for five minutes without some dumb shit happenin’.”

They hid along a low laying creek so the animals could get a much needed drink of water. John splashed his face repeatedly, resembling a shaggy mutt. Drops streamed down his face until he hastily wiped them with his sleeves.

“It weren’t my fault, I was just—”

“Trespassin’ on private property?”

“That’s a stupid law. Who am I hurting? The grass?”

The fool shyly peeked up, likely looking for a reassuring smile or chuckle. Instead he was met with a stare, hard as stone, and his head dipped low. Arthur sighed. Despite the changes, John was still John. A lazy, incompetent, sharp-tongued child who was somehow still the apple of his fathers’ eyes. A boy full of fire and heart who if anyone so much as laid a finger on Arthur would beat them within an inch of their life. He tried to maintain his disapproving glare, but that stupid face—a dejected puppy oozing shame—it cut through Arthur like he was made of butter.

“How to disarm will be our next lesson.”

\--

The thing no one tells you about being an outlaw is that much of it is spent waiting. Waiting for an opportunity, sifting through muck until a speck of gold caught their eye. Waiting for the right moment to strike, like lightning dancing restlessly between heavy clouds. Waiting for the gates of hell to open beneath him as a rope snapped his neck in two. Waiting for things to get better.

They never did.

It started with a letter. Arthur didn’t even need to read it to know that something was wrong. Bessie’s beautiful flourishes and twirls had been replaced with a short, rushed scrawl, that simply requested Hosea to come at once and, if possible, to bring everyone.

There was no conversation. Everyone just started packing.

If the journey to Ogallala had been a light-hearted affair, Arthur would have pointed out it was the first time all of them were on a train without the intention of robbing it. The air was thick though with foregone conclusions, choking him into silence. Arthur popped three buttons on his shirt, highly tempted to waltz into first class and swipe a silk fan from a startled society lady. With too many people crammed into too tight a space and seated far from the sparse windows, for all he knew the train might be carrying them through the bowels of hell. It didn’t help that John was using his shoulder as a pillow, likely an oil slick would be left behind on his sleeve. Between the overwhelming body odor, the buzz of obnoxious conversations, and knowing he had several more hours to endure, Arthur tilted his hat over his eyes and followed John’s lead.

When Arthur awoke, he was missing both his hat and little brother. Full of excitement over visiting Bessie—no one had the heart to tell him the real purpose of the trip—and it being his first time on a train, John’s inability to remain seated was hardly a surprise. Once again, it was up to Arthur to track him down. Dutch and Miss Grimshaw were out cold, while Hosea was so deep in thought a bear could rampage through the boxcar, massacre everyone, and the man wouldn’t notice. Arthur peeled himself off the bench and slowly made his way past the other passengers towards the platform door.

“If I were dumb as a rock, where would I hide?”

Had the boy snuck into the upper-class parlor cars, the train attendants would have tossed his ass out. The dining car was a possibility, but a kid nicking food would have been easy to spot in so small a space. There was really only one place the greasy raccoon could have scampered off to. Or up to rather. Arthur climbed the iron ladder on the platform and sure enough found John with a shit-eating grin, sitting cross-legged on their boxcar.

“Get back down, now!” Arthur barked. “Ain’t in no mood for your horseshit today.”

“It’s too hot in there,” John whined, bouncing onto his feet, ready to run if necessary. “No one’s gonna notice we’re up here.”

Given diving headfirst off the train was preferable to returning to the sweltering boxcar below and holding little desire to engage in a chase, against his better judgement Arthur sat down next to John. Somewhere between Kansas and Nebraska, the grass rippled as the train snaked its way through a beautifully barren sea of green. With no skylines to mar his view and the wind as refreshing as falling into a cool lake, it was hard not to grin.

“I’m a genius, huh?” John smirked, absent-mindedly picking at the acne on his cheeks.

“If by ‘genius’ you mean ‘jackass,’ then sure.” Arthur pulled John’s hands away. “Leave ‘em be. You’ll get scars and trust me, you don’t need any help in the ugly department.”

John elbowed him. “Shut up.”

The boy fell quiet, picking at his dirty nails instead. When he spoke again, John tried hard to sound nonchalant but couldn’t quite pull it off. “This ain’t a social call, is it?”

\--

Stomach cancer, according to the doctors up in Lincoln, and not much to be done about it. Discovered too late, the disease had spread throughout the rest of her body. At first Arthur was convinced there was a mistake. Bessie didn’t even look sick, just more tired than usual. Bright and cheerful, Bessie pushed back at how her family and friends fussed over her.

“Hosea, things need to get done around here and me dying doesn’t make that any less so.”

“You’re not the only one here who can milk a cow, dear. C’mon now. Doctor’s orders are bedrest and plenty of it.”

In the lonely hours of the morning though, when robbed of sleep by his swirling thoughts, the reality of the situation tore through him like a bullet. Hushed whispers came from Hosea and Bessie’s room, the two recounting happier days and what could have been. Bessie’s sisters rummaging through kitchen cabinets in search of sherry. Miss Grimshaw and Dutch smoking outside, the red flare of their cigarette and cigar paled in the waning crescent. John tossing and turning despite laying next to him. Arthur lit a candle and tried his best to sketch Bessie from ten years ago. None of these days would ever grace the pages of his journal.

All the arrangements had been made; all her affairs were in order. Bessie was to meet death with the same fortitude that had carried her through life. Arthur tried to mirror her strength, tried to be the glue that held everyone together. He did every chore he could get his hands on so others could spend as much time with her as possible. It was never enough though. Arthur always felt like he should be doing more.

One lazy afternoon, Arthur and John were sitting on her bed. She held their hands as the boy regaled her with the story of how Arthur saved him from the angry rancher. Bessie laughed softly at his foolishness, eyeing them both as if they were treasures beyond value. It was hard to meet her stare.

She kissed their knuckles. “You know, you two are the closest thing I’ve had to sons.”

His throat suddenly became so dry that no amount of water could ever quench the ache. Life wasn’t just unfair, it seemed determined to rip out what little happiness they had root and stem. Hosea, half mad with drink, revealed his belief that this was retribution for his many sins. To die was nothing, what he deserved, but to watch and wait for a loved one to die was a special brand of karmic torture.

He should say something, tell her how much he loved her. As his vision obscured though and John hid behind his own veil of black, all Arthur could do was squeeze her hand before fleeing. His legs carried him straight off the property. Past the white-picket fence Hosea had built that one wonderful summer long ago, across the cornfield, and back out into the rural emptiness.

His shadow pursued. Light footsteps striving to keep up with the long strides. No matter how fast or how far he walked, it would never be enough. Arthur stopped and John grew hesitant, likely uncertain whether approaching would make him more upset. John always took the riskier option and stood next to him. Arthur remained hidden beneath the brim of his hat, infuriated he didn’t have a better handle on his emotions. John didn’t say anything though, didn’t tease him about the shuddering of his chest nor the way Arthur flinched when the boy rested a hand on his shoulder. His touch was firm, an anchor dropped in the ocean. Holding his brother steady until he was ready to go back inside.

\--

Hosea fell apart after Bessie’s funeral.

It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing like how characters crumbled in the confines of a novel. Hosea was far too formal for such rawness, preferring to keep everything neat and locked away. Dipping into their stock of brandy often and wearing black were his sole expressions of outward mourning. Only those closest to him could see the slow decline. He participated in jobs, but his heart wasn’t in it. He spoke, but the dry wit that peppered his voice was absent. He would disappear from camp for a day or two, then return without explanation. He smiled at John when the boy correctly answered all his arithmetic equations, but there was no warmth. Hosea was there, but at the same time he wasn’t.

“What are we gonna do, Dutch?”

“I don’t know if there’s anything we can do, Arthur. You can’t force a man to heal.”

It was Hosea who reigned in Dutch’s worst tendencies and kept his partner’s fire from swelling out of control. It was Hosea who listened to Arthur when he couldn’t make sense of his anger or sorrow. Now with the tables turned and Arthur unable to do anything in the face of impossible sorrow, he never felt so useless in his life. Was love even worth it? Arthur imagined its joy was unparalleled, but the sheer depths of its sorrows, how no light could ever skim the bottom—perhaps it was better to be alone. Bessie wasn’t the only one who died that day.

“Can’t we go get him? Please Dutch?” It had been four days since Hosea left camp. Off drinking himself into oblivion no doubt but he didn’t want to display that sort of depravity around camp. John was terrified Hosea would wind up like his father: a destitute drunk dead before his time. “He couldn’t have gone far!”

“When a man vanishes, son, he needs time to himself,” Dutch explained with a patience that rarely saw the light of day. “You can’t force a man to stay someplace were he doesn’t want to be. He needs to come back on his own. He will come back to us. Give him time.”

“How much time?”

A lot, it turned out. Although the pale-haired outlaw and his gray mere dotted their horizon three days later, he was somehow more removed than ever. As Hosea faded in and out of camp, small changes began to unfold. Dutch took over John’s education. Thoreau, Emerson, and his literary messiah, Evelyn Miller, were used to guide the boy. The contrast was stark. Hosea wasn’t satisfied with his boys being able to read and write, he wanted them to read and write well. Dutch however cared more about John absorbing the content of the lessons than whether the boy could sound out sentences or spell without error.

As Arthur filled the boy’s head with nonsense, courtesy of a penny dreadful, inside their tent one night, John confessed his new lessons still made him feel stupid but in a different way.

“Well, there ain’t no cure for being dumb.” Arthur turned the page. “Gotta live with it.”

“Can’t be too bad,” John replied. “You seem to get along just fine.”

Arthur smacked John’s head with the book before quickly flipping back to where they left off. The brat followed along with the text while he read aloud. Sometimes they switched. Arthur had no clue how to teach someone to read, but at least John’s eyes didn’t wander this way.

Miss Grimshaw maintained order over the camp as always, but now she came to Arthur regarding matters she didn’t want to trifle Hosea with. The stew pot was leaking. Some of the chickens were going missing. Their food supplies were getting low. Most of their clothes were getting threadbare. Arthur took care of everything without question. Work was a distraction from his own mourning and mounting concerns.

There were tremors between his feet though, cracks threatening to burst through the surface. Something was bound to give.

“What in hell?” Half-awake and bleary eyed, Arthur nearly choked on his coffee, perplexed by the split logs all over the ground.

“We were getting low.” John wiped the sweat from his brow, before placing another log on the stump.

When he brought the axe down however, it got stuck in the wood. John froze, then erupted into laughter far too loud for the early hour it was. A hungover Dutch gave him a look, sour as spoiled milk, over the edge of his newspaper. John tried to smother his giggles with his hand, but it came out as snorts instead.

“Sound like a damn hog.” Arthur snatched the axe and smashed the wood in two on the stump. “Go eat. I’ll take care of this.”

John’s face scrunched up, but Arthur would never hear the retort he had lined up. Dutch was staring the boy down with that expression of his that made it hard to tell whether he was planning to hit you with a lecture or a fist. Although never the latter, John still hurried away.

“Don’t be mad at him, he’s just trying to—”

“You know what today is, Arthur?”

He mentally skimmed through his list of birthdays and anniversaries but came up empty-handed. “Wednesday?”

Although he also drank more than usual and was currently going through women at a breakneck pace, Dutch remained a pillar of strength. Change had blown their camp apart, but he too was a force of nature. A storm that could not be blown off course. Whereas Arthur grappled with change, Dutch fought back tooth and nail. There was something so admirable about Dutch’s tenacity, how he didn’t seem mad at Hosea, how he kept planning and scheming away.

A slow, lecherous grin peeled back his face. “A fine day for John to partake in his first robbery.”


	7. How to Improvise When Plans Go Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change continues to leave Arthur feeling unstable, even as Hosea returns thanks to Dutch's scheming. Arthur and John continue to be each other's anchors as the boy experiences his first two jobs.

Anger always simmered beneath the surface, always threatened to boil over at a moment’s notice, but never when Arthur sketched. Why charcoal upon a blank page pulled him back from the flames he couldn’t say. Maybe when pride rested in service of others, the act of doing something for himself, something selfish, was almost liberating. His journal was for him and him alone; a place for his hands to capture a moment in time; to recreate life rather than harm and destroy.

What was he trying to accomplish with his sketches? Maybe nothing. Just a way to pass the time. The act itself the reward. Or maybe it was like how he saw John. If he could do something right maybe he wasn’t wholly rotten; more than just a bad man. Arthur snorted. As if stupid drawings meant anything in the face of mounting sins. As if the boy hadn’t already been stained by his influence, forever trying to imitate Arthur like he was someone worthy of admiration.

The twinkle of amusement in John’s dark eyes from two nights ago grew under his fingertips. Caught red-handed with a stolen cigarette between his smirking lips, the boy never seemed too fussed when his schemes were thwarted; riling up his brother was an endless delight. Unfortunately for John, the same could be said for Arthur. He simply snatched the cigarette and left the tent without a word. Nothing cut the attention seeker deep like silence and indifference.

Too bad he hadn’t used that time to counsel him on successful thievery.

Miss Grimshaw had John scrubbing all the tables and rewashing all the dishes, punishment for dropping and shattering a plate when Dutch revealed his intentions. The boy set off to prepare the horses the moment he emerged from his tent; hangover less debilitating, eager to set his plan into motion. He had encountered a lavishly-dressed roughneck who—after one too many drinks—bragged about a windfall of cash thanks to finding a gold bar. The fool was begging to be robbed and who was Dutch to deny him?

Arthur snapped his journal shut. “This is a two-man job.”

“Think of how much easier it’ll be with three.”

With the taste of success already sweet upon his lips, he would suffer no pessimism; dismissals fully loaded and ready to shoot down all concerns. The argument was lost before it started. Verbal spats placed Arthur at a disadvantage. While his fists spoke a language clearer than his tongue ever could, others could bind and gag him with words. Dutch was not only a master at this but Arthur couldn’t even bring himself to say no to the man when it came down to it. So much for standing in for Hosea in his absence, but then again those shoes were awfully big to fill.

“He’s reckless. Acts first, thinks second.”

“That’s what’ll keep him alive in the years to come. John will be a step ahead of those wasting their time overthinking and doubting.”

“Or put him in the ground.”

“The job couldn’t be easier.” Dutch laughed richly. “There’ll be no surprises. The man lives alone. While I provide the distraction, you’ll grab the money and anything you deem worthy of being relieved from the man’s possession. John will keep watch from the back door. I’m not going to throw my boy into the fire.”

Arthur was trapped somewhere between relieved and annoyed, recalling the haze of bullets that nearly spelled an early end to his own first job. “But what if—”

“He’ll probably spend the ride back whining he didn’t get to do anything.” Dutch smiled at John fondly. “Have some faith in the boy. Your doubt will only undermine him.”

Two-storeys high, built of a sturdy wood, full of reds and whites and even tulips to top it off, the homestead had been ripped from a postcard—excluding the thieves about to descend upon it like locusts. Dutch bestowed last minute words of encouragement. John drank it up like a man parched; yearning to please the one who saw potential in him where no one else did. Seated on Admiral once more, John looked less like a proud knight who had slayed the dragon and more like he was about to be fed to one, until Arthur passed him a bandana. When he put it on, John walked with confidence alongside Arthur as they crept towards the back door.

Dutch strolled over to the porch, greeting his victim with his usual enthusiasm. “Excuse me, sir! I seem to be lost. I am supposed to visit an old acquaintance in Dodge City and strongly suspect I have taken a wrong turn.”

“I’ll say! You’re damn near headin’ in the opposite direction.”

Although the lock was easy to pick, the door wouldn’t budge. Neither would the windows. Of course. Jobs were straightforward until they weren’t. Not keen on shattering the glass or ramming his way inside, Arthur rubbed his chin in contemplation. There must be another way in. If he weren’t so big, the small opened window on the second floor might work. His slender partner-in-crime stepped forward, eyebrow quirked in expectation.

John scowled at Arthur’s hesitation. “Lift me up, damn it!”

“Demandin’ little bastard, ain’t you?” Arthur hoisted the brat onto the roof. “If ya see someone, forget the money. Get outta there.”

With a nod, John crawled inside while Arthur crossed his arms and rested against the door. Waiting for something to go wrong, being unable to see what the others were up to or help directly—being the lookout was both the easiest and the worst job. Never one to sit back, dirtying his hands would always be his preference. After all, wasn’t it his willingness to act, to do whatever they wanted, whatever was necessary, the main reason Dutch and Hosea kept him around all these years?

“You know, Dodge used to be quite the city, especially below the deadline.”

“Deadline?”

“South of the railroad. Law was scarce there so drovers and reprobates could have their fill while the rest of Dodge pretended to be civilized as they benefitted from the wealth cattle drives once brought.” Arthur could practically hear Dutch smirk. “That’s society for you.”

So smooth a talker, Dutch could convince paint to strip itself from a wall. Like Hosea, the man spun stories like spiders weaved webs, intricate and innate. Arthur shifted his weight. He had been gone for two weeks now. Sometimes he missed Hosea so much it hurt. He knew the man had not and would never abandon his family but his recent absences chipped away at a part of Arthur that should’ve healed by now. Guess old wounds can still bleed.

“I grabbed some stuff but I can’t find the money,” John whispered as he opened the window, frowning when it wouldn’t go up anymore. “It’s stuck! The door is blocked too. I can’t let you in.”

“Well, calm down and keep at it.” Arthur snapped. “Check all the jars and boxes.”

No different than a raccoon searching for morsels of food, John stuck his face into every cabinet, crate, and container he could get his grubby little hands on. Thank heavens Dutch had the man laughing, silence was sacrificed in the wake of haste. While opening each jar along the kitchen counter, the fool shoved several biscuits in his mouth, only to nearly choke when he discovered a wad of cash in the flour jar.

“You sure I ain’t seen you somewhere before?”

“Don’t believe so, I’d remember a kind and honest gentleman such as yourself. Suppose I just have one of those faces.”

No time to scurry back upstairs. John climbed onto the kitchen sink and tried to squeeze out the window. The idiot flailed haplessly until Arthur grabbed under his arms and yanked him out. The two toppled over, crashing down in an inelegant heap before scrambling up and off into the cornfield. Satchel bouncing hard against his hip, heavy with nicked items, John had the most ridiculous smile on his face as his nerves likely crackled from the high only a successful robbery could bring.

Both were panting when they reached the horses. Arthur slapped John’s back. “Good thing you’re skinny as a twig, kid. Otherwise that wouldn’t have gone as well.”

“I’m not a twig or a kid!” John smacked Arthur’s hand away. “Did I not just rob a house? We’re several hundred dollars richer thanks to me.”

“Crime don’t make you a man, kid.”

“You were the one inside?” Dutch’s grin stretched from ear-to-ear as he pushed his way through the shrubbery. When John handed him the money, he ruffled the boy’s hair. “You did well, son. If Hosea was here even he wouldn’t be able to argue otherwise!”

“Weren’t nothing,” John’s cheeks flushed. “Arthur helped me.”

Nothing made Dutch happy like his boys working together for the good of their family. He threw his arms around their shoulders, which left Arthur as red as John and ready to protest, but murderous yells in the distance cut him off.

“Let me guess, Marston. Forgot to close all the cabinets and drawers?”

John’s head bowed. “Oops.”

The mutual exasperation on Dutch and Arthur’s faces would have been funny if the blast of a shotgun had not sent them onto their horses and galloping off in opposite directions.

\--

It was hard to say what was the bigger surprise: the amount John had stolen in so little time or that Hosea, immaculate as ever and sober as a priest, was waiting for them at camp. Book in hand, Copper by his feet, warm smile on his face as he rose from his chair, it was like he never left. A childish desire to run over and hug the man seized him, but Arthur was never one for theatrics. John however lacked all restraint, practically flying off Grace into his father’s arms, firing questions faster than any shootist could fan their revolver.

“Whoa! Slow down. I can only answer one thing at a time, son.” Hosea laughed. “What’s got you all riled up?”

A sudden paralysis attacked John and let his inner fool shine through, all wide-eyed and mouth gaping. Was the robbery supposed to be a secret?

Dutch sauntered over with the confidence of a man basking in his own brilliance. “Mr. Matthews! So glad you’ve decided to grace us with your presence today.”

“Figured I should stop by every now and then to make sure your head is still on straight.” His gaze narrowed dangerously. A seasoned detective couldn’t have put together the clues any faster: John’s inability to look at him, Arthur oozing guilt over by the horses, Dutch’s smug delight, how Miss Grimshaw had made herself scarce—she had a knack for predicting storms. “Seems I’ve been gone a bit too long this time.”

If Hosea ever leveled a look that severe at him, Arthur’s soul would soar clear out of his body. Yet Dutch laughed genuinely, as if his partner wasn’t one sarcastic remark away from punching him square in the jaw or worse. Nothing could ruffle his feathers today. Not when his Golden Boy had been the shining star Dutch always knew he was. The way he carelessly dropped John’s heavy satchel on the table, a blatant proclamation of triumph—damn, if it didn’t remind him of how John would pester Arthur just for fun. Guess men don’t ever outgrow pushing one another’s buttons.

As they stared down one another like a prelude to a duel, Arthur called out, “Marston, I don’t think Grace has stretched her legs enough today.” A terrible lie but he wasn’t about to let John get caught in the middle when they drew. “Let’s go for another ride.”

John didn’t have to be asked twice.

\--

Whenever Dutch and Hosea lashed out at one another, words as sharp as any whip, they still managed to move on quickly. A cat o’ nine tails must’ve been used this time, for two weeks they nursed their wounds and left the campground littered with eggshells. But then money did what it did best: it ran out. Once the two were embroiled in cons again, if was as if nothing had changed. Time began to stretch out with all the comfort and beautiful familiarity of slipping on an old pair of boots that just fit so damn well. Dutch was happy. Arthur and Miss Grimshaw were busy. John didn’t participate in jobs. Hosea was withdrawn, still drinking on the sly as grief continued to consume him from the inside out. But he was home.

“Caught wind of a crooked gunsmith,” Hosea said as they walked into a saloon that was far too crowded for Arthur’s liking. “He has a stolen shipment of firearms coming in. Posed to make quite the profit. Would be a shame if those guns were to go missing. Couldn’t exactly report it to the authorities, now could he?”

Although Hosea won the battle given John’s lack of involvement, as Arthur watched him charm a gullible barmaid into revealing what she overheard about the shipment, he couldn’t help but feel Dutch had won the war.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” Arthur muttered, eyes not lifting from the bottle in his hands resting on the table. Calling out Dutch was like tightrope walking with the man at the opposite end unraveling the knot. “Hosea can’t leave us again if he thinks you’ll use John in jobs while he’s gone.”

Dutch swirled the scotch in his glass, savoring its aroma, before flashing a smile cold enough to turn water into ice. “Sometimes people need a gentle push in the right direction.”

Rather than point out this wasn’t a gentle push so much as strong-arming his partner back into the role that suited Dutch best—faith be damned—Arthur drowned his voice with beer. His stomach burned with self-loathing. Dutch’s manipulative ways were fine and dandy when it came to outlawing but the instant he applied his skills to his family, that’s where Arthur drew the line? Hypocrite.

“Hosea is safe and with his family; not dying alone in some gutter.” Dutch placed his hand on Arthur’s arm; his rings still sparkled from the flickering gaslights along the wall. “Isn’t that what matters?”

Arthur nodded, then downed the rest of his beer in one go.

\--

The day before the heist, Arthur found John throwing a knife at a tree. Or trying to. It kept bouncing off the bark or landing short. Sullen towards his fathers and snappy with Arthur, lately John had been little better than a cross mutt just aching for an excuse to whip out his foul teeth. When he was younger John always ran to Arthur, expecting his big brother to make things right when something went wrong. Brows bent over murderous eyes, face red and jaw clenched, this silent creature of wrath was a stranger.

“What did that tree do to you, Marston?”

John didn’t even bother to look at him. “Leave me alone.”

“Pretty sad for a former knife-wielding, pickpocketing street urchin.”

He threw the knife as hard as he could, but anger was the enemy of accuracy. “Well, you know me. Can’t do shit.”

Sighing loudly through his nose, Arthur pulled out his own knife and placed it in John’s hands. “Gotta relax, kid. Stand up straight and keep your right foot forward.”

“I don’t need your help,” John snapped, but followed Arthur’s instructions nevertheless.

Arthur adjusted his arms and fingers. “Keep your thumb off the edge, you want it in the center of the handle or it’s gonna wobble in the air.”

This time when John threw it, the blade pierced the bark. He continued to pout like a two-year-old but mumbled his thanks.

“How did you screw up this time? Maybe I can fix—”

“I didn’t. That’s the problem.” John blurted out. “You all said I did good on that job but you don’t want my help no more. Why? What’d I do?”

“That’s why you’ve been sulkin’?” Arthur couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. “Grow the hell up first, then Dutch and Hosea will reconsider.”

Waves of heat and sweat rolled off John as he got in Arthur’s face. He tried to keep his voice flat, pretending he wasn’t five seconds from a temper tantrum. “Tell them to bring me tomorrow. No one tells me nothin’ but Dutch is all excited. I know the next one is a big one. I can help!”

Crossing his arms, Arthur glowered down at John, hoping in vain to intimidate the brat. All claws and spite, with no brains to speak of, he had no intention of backing down and jutted his chin out as if daring Arthur to hit him.

“I ain’t tellin’ them shit. There’s a world of difference between robbin’ a house and stealin’ from other thieves, boy. They’re right not to bring ya. Too damn young and stupid and inexperienced.”

“That’s horseshit and you know it!” John shoved Arthur’s chest hard and he took a step back. “I’m older than you were when you started! How the hell am I supposed to get better when I can’t get any practice?”

Wanting nothing more than to shove him back, Arthur drew from the well of patience inside. One of these days it was going to run dry. “Things were different then. I was a degenerate long before Dutch and Hosea saved me.”

“And what, I’m some sort of angel?” Each breath shook with building rage. “You three act like I’m an innocent who needs protecting. I ain’t no such thing. I’ve killed before.”

“They love you, Marston. They always have.” Arthur’s face scrunched up. That was the difference. One boy had been loved from the start, the other they learned to love. “And your Ma don’t count! That wasn’t your fault.”

There was a long pause. “Ever been to Chicago in the winter?”

Arthur blinked. “What?”

“It’s so cold you forget what it’s like to be warm. Winter there don’t let up either. Just goes on and on.” A destructive smile cracked across his face like a fracture in a quaking earth; the kind Arthur imagined a sadistic hangman wore beneath his mask. “Some of the other kids went back to the orphanage. Not me though. I’d kill myself before going back. I snuck into factories to keep warm. Whenever I got caught, they beat me and then tossed me back out onto the streets.”

“Johnny—”

“One time this guard found me and he—he said I could stay if I—” John ran a hand through his hair as his voice wavered, biting his lip hard enough to bleed. “I tried to run but he caught up and held me down and he—there was a gun at his hip. I was just gonna threaten him, but the bastard grabbed it too, so I pulled the trigger. If I didn’t he would’ve—”

Arthur hugged John so hard the boy’s words were lost in the crook of his neck. Their hearts pounded feverishly with a fury that neither could release. How do you retaliate against a memory? A white heat pulsed through his veins, blinding Arthur in a fog that robbed him of thought. John tried to push him away, but soon relented, chest heaving as he gripped Arthur just as hard.

“It weren’t my fault. He didn’t leave me no choice. But I’d do it again, Arthur, I would!” He tried to shush John, whose eyes had welled up before he slammed them shut, squeezing so hard it had to hurt. “If there’s a hell I’m going to it so you all don’t need to protect me. Let me help tomorrow.”

“Johnny, there’s nothin’ either of us could say that’ll make ‘em change their minds.”

Arthur smoothed the tears away from John’s face, wishing for all sorts of things he couldn’t have. To take away his pain and sorrow, to make him understand not being involved was a good thing, to go back and throttle every single person who had ever harmed his little brother. Life wasn’t just unfair, it was cruel and there was nothing Arthur could do about it.

“I wish we’d found you sooner.”

“I wish you did too.”

\--

Hidden in the shadows where thieves in the night belonged, Arthur loaded crate after crate of firearms into the back of a stolen wagon. Out front Hosea kept a watchful eye, ready to spring the horses into action. Dutch went back and forth between watching the south side and helping Arthur. West of the Arkansas that sliced right through Wichita, they were far from the downtown core where lawmen roamed wide. The bigger the city, the bigger the risk though. Swiftness was key to minimizing the chance for error or unwanted guests.

Turned out they already had one though. As Arthur shoved some of the blankets aside to make room for the large crate of pistols in Dutch’s hands, one bundle felt particularly warm. He ripped the sheet off and found John pouting up at him. Arthur grabbed the fool by the scruff of his shirt and Dutch dropped the crate with a loud bang.

“I won’t cause any trouble, I swear!” John’s feet kicked as he dangled in the air. “I can help! If you two work together and I keep watch, we’ll get out of here faster.”

“Selfish is what you are.” Arthur dropped John. “This job is risky enough without us havin’ to worry ‘bout your fool ass.”

The boy paid him no mind, his attention solely on his father. Fire met fire. Eerie silence clashed with unwavering stubbornness. A stranger looking on would never have been able to guess John wasn’t Dutch’s real son. He grasped the boy’s arm, wrenched him off the floor, and pressed a shotgun to his chest.

“What’s going on back there?” Hosea called out in a hoarse whisper.

“Got ourselves a stowaway,” Dutch sneered, immediately setting his partner off into a fury. He thrusted John out the back door. “Calm down and stay put, old man! It’s been handled.”

Arthur kept his head down and continued to load the crates. Now wasn’t the time for smart remarks. They worked with diligence, desperate to flee before the tide turned. Well, maybe not desperate enough. They had more than enough but there was still room in the wagon. Hopefully greed wouldn’t be their undoing. The whole while his conversation with Hosea earlier echoed in his head.

“Marston’s been all upset ‘cause he feels left out.”

“Oh, I know.” Hosea turned the page of his book. “He got a taste and now I’ve left him deprived.”

“Ain’t complainin’. Don’t want him there anymore than you do.”

A real, genuine smile took over Hosea’s face. The kind he usually reserved for John when he read a paragraph flawlessly or Bessie when she, well, when she did anything. The kind Arthur hadn’t seen light up his face since she passed.

“We should’ve waited with you.” Arthur opened his mouth, but Hosea carried on. “It was wrong to force you before you were ready. I suppose that’s why I’m so hesitant with John. There’s only so many times you can patch up your son and wonder if this will be the last time he opens his eyes.”

“Dutch!” John ran in and the dark room came back into focus. “There’s a bunch of men on horseback coming! From all sides!”

The brothers practically dove into the wagon as Dutch ran forward. “Hosea! Let’s go!”

At the snap of the reins, the horses rushed out of the alley onto the main road with the force of a dam bursting. The bullets started flying. Arthur snatched the shotgun and fired at the lawmen in pursuit. Twelve and counting. The wagon careened down the street and scattered sparse night owls out for a stroll. Each sharp corner rounded sent the brothers stumbling and trying to keep the crates from falling. Arthur couldn’t see the bullets, but he could hear them riddling the boxes and wagon with dozens of holes. One seared the skin of his shoulder. Arthur swore violently, clutching his wound.

“Stay down, Marston!”

Did the bastard listen? Nope. Too caught up in shooting. No time to scold. No time to protect. Hell, there wasn’t even time to reload. The shotgun fell with a clatter as Arthur drew two revolvers, sending men to their deaths left, right, and center.

Beyond the city limits, the wagon tore out into the irrepressible flatness of a countryside where cover was a dream. The wheels bounced on bumps and pits concealed by grass, swerving along the winding Arkansas to the beat of stomping hooves, angry yells, and horses’ cries. With bullets spitting in every direction, whatever John was trying to tell him became lost. He could see the light at the end though. Literally. A passenger train rushed through the night ahead, its light shooting out like an outstretched hand.

With no cover and more men joining the chase, the brothers were sitting ducks. Arthur tried to force John to the ground, but he fought back. Eyes wild as he pushed Arthur aside. Shot the chest of a lawman who Arthur hadn’t noticed riding hard from the east. Before he fell, his gun went off. John cried out and tumbled from the wagon. Arthur didn’t even think. He jumped right off. His body slammed and rolled in the tall grass; shoulder screaming at its prolonged abuse.

Squirming and swearing, John clutched his side. Although pursuers kept after the wagon, forgoing the fallen two, he would take no chances. Arthur scooped John up, carrying him to a slight slope in the earth. A terrible hiding spot, but it was all they had. In the distance, the blast of a train whistle echoed as the wagon slipped around it just in time and disappeared from sight.

“God damn useless bastard.” Arthur tore John’s crimson-stained shirt open. The bullet had pierced just below his lower left ribcage, the exit wound a gory mess of broken flesh and too much blood. Claws may as well have reached into Arthur’s chest, clenching his lungs until they punctured and collapsed. He couldn’t breathe and his admonishments came out in gasps. “Can’t stay behind. Can’t take cover. Can’t do shit.”

Arthur used his teeth to yank the cork from the bourbon he had on hand, pouring it over the wound. “Gotta try to be the fuckin’ hero, hm? Now look at ya. Damsel-in-distress. Again.”

The sting had the kid writhing, silent tears worsening. Hands shaking in frustration at how he couldn’t trade places with him, how quiet John was, how tonight just had to be overcast, Arthur dumped his medical kit on the ground. He grabbed a bundle of cotton and held it against the wound, while he unraveled and then tore the white linen cloth with his teeth. This situation is exactly what he had feared: John had both killed and nearly been killed.

“You’re a special brand of stupid. Can’t believe you snuck into the wagon.” Arthur ignored how his sweat-soaked strands stung his eyes and wrapped the linen around and around John’s middle. “Gonna be the death of me, kid, I swear.”

Chest heaving as he finished tying the knot, Arthur kept his hand there, praying the extra pressure would stop the bleeding. The boy was slumped against him like a ragdoll. “Should’ve let me get shot, you fool.”

“Shut up.” John had been mostly out of it, eyes unfocused and glossed over until Arthur said that. “You should’ve stayed on the wagon. If I live, Dutch and Hosea are gonna kill me regardless.”

His elation alone at hearing the boy’s voice almost overrode the words themselves. “Don’t know why God gave you a mouth. Nothin’ of value has ever come outta there.” John turned his head up, a childish glare on his pale face. Half-dead and stubborn as ever. “Enjoyin’ any of this? Bleedin’ to death in the middle of nowhere? Nearly getting blown away by bullets? Having to kill?”

John placed his head over Arthur’s heart. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Do I enjoy anythin’, Marston?”

The kid giggled which made Arthur smirk in spite of everything. Sure, joy could be found in a successfully executed plan or a miraculous escape from the law, but Arthur pitied any outlaw who truly enjoyed their line of work. Those who loved instilling terror and pain, who got a thrill from knowing any day might be their last. John stared up with such sad eyes; he knew the answer. A resounding no.

“Well, since Dutch and Hosea probably are gonna kill you, suppose I best give you my thanks now for savin’ my sorry hide.”

You would’ve thought he had magically healed John’s wound with the way he smiled. A bit like staring into the sun, Arthur had to look away.

Change was sometimes a thunderstorm. Sudden, relentless, at times devastating long after the downpour. Whenever it battered Arthur, sweeping him off his feet and out into the ocean he held onto his north star, Dutch and Hosea, to help him navigate the new unknown. But a man can only tread water for so long with a boy on his back expecting him to carry them both ashore. As John bled in his arms, a tiny, treacherous voice whispered that everything was a choice. Arthur could save up, buy some land, and take John with him. Raise the boy up right so he would never have the chance to become a bad man. Arthur sighed. Such thoughts were practically sinful, not to mention stupid. He could never betray Dutch or Hosea. Arthur needed them. He owed them everything and John wasn’t his to take. Arthur had floundered on his own and would only do so again.

He would just have to keep swimming against the current.

“You’re hurt.”

Arthur shrugged. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Liar.”

Maybe that was the reason for his ridiculous thoughts: blood loss. Arthur ran his hand over the scraggly mess that John called hair. “Shut up and rest now. Dutch and Hosea will find us. Everythin’ is gonna be alright.”

“Sure, Arthur.”


	8. How to Lose Your Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur meets and attempts to court Mary despite the glaring obstacles in their way. Meanwhile, John is increasingly acting out and Arthur can't figure out why.
> 
> Note: I apologize for taking two weeks to write this. Turns out writing a chapter focused on Arthur and Mary's relationship in a John-centric story is harder than it looks. Hopefully I struck the right balance.

A man hardened before his time and living far beyond the outskirts of civilization and decency, Arthur wasn’t used to making good impressions, let alone lasting ones that didn’t involve the shape of his fist or a bullet hole from his revolver. All muscle and no brains, with little more to offer than menacing looks and snarled threats, at best Arthur was forgettable, at worst his hulking shadow would loom in nightmares for years to come. Yet here this young woman was, staring up at him like he was worth something, like he wasn’t just a thief and a killer.

“A hero? Oh no, miss. That, uh, that I am surely not.”

Run through a hail of bullets to save a loved one? No problem. Fight off a ravenous cougar with nothing but a knife and bleeding hands? Sounds good. Rob a bank in broad daylight with lawmen prowling nearby? Sure, Dutch. Form a coherent sentence in response to a beautiful young lady?

Self-combustion would be easier and preferable.

“But sir, you saved my life by risking your own. You ran through traffic and rescued me out of sheer selflessness. I would’ve been crushed by that runaway carriage if not for your bravery. I cannot think of a more suitable word to describe you.”

Arthur fidgeted with his hat, unable to meet her eye. A welcomed change considering he had gawked like some hapless idiot when he helped her up—which he was, but normally Arthur was better at concealing that fact. Fair like the women captured in paintings that line the halls of galleries, Arthur couldn’t believe the sweet smile on her gentle face was for him. How he longed to grace his fingertips upon her pale ruffles and green silk once more, seldom having the pleasure to touch something so fine unless he was pushing a working girl’s skirt up her thighs or rummaging through a closet with nothing but theft on his mind.

“In the right place at the right time, I suppose.” Her lips twisted in disapproval. “Sorry, miss, not tryin’ to be contrary. That’s—that’s mighty kind of ya to call me that.”

“May I know my rescuer’s name?”

“Oh, um, my name?” Jesus Christ. What _was_ his name again? “Uh. Arthur? Yeah, Arthur. Arthur Morgan.”

Smooth. Thank heavens he was alone. If Dutch and Hosea were here they would be baffled as to how two men who talked to women without issue could raise such a bumbling fool. Meanwhile John would be laughing his ass off, though Arthur would quickly point out that at least he didn’t turn beet red whenever a pretty lady so much as looked at him.

“That’s a nice name.” Her smile re-emerged with the same warmth and light of the sun parting clouds. Arthur was certain his innards had turned to bubbles for he was at risk of floating up, up, and away. “I’m Mary Gillis.”

\--

“Say, are you old enough to be in here?”

John placed fifty cents on the counter. “Does it matter?”

Humid from the sickening heat and swath of unwashed bodies, a crowded saloon was hardly where Arthur wanted to spend his evening. The stale air of cheap gin and tobacco was strangling him. It was a last ditch attempt to salvage his plan to hunt down a lead, having found no success circulating in stores brimming with gossip. The brat had tagged along, uninvited as always, sticking to Arthur like his sweat-soaked shirt. The bartender snorted at the boy’s cheek, eyeing Arthur instead. John’s youthful face and soft voice did him no favors. He gave a tiny nod and John, none the wiser, beamed as a shot was poured. He threw the whiskey back, winced, then reached back into his pocket. Arthur grabbed his wrist.

“C’mon,” he whined, voice alight with mischief. “I’ll buy you one.”

“Don’t push your luck, kid.”

That’s all John did though. Sixteen and stupid, he constantly pushed boundaries just to see how far he could get before someone or something shoved back. Even now, his sly grin revealed an eagerness to test the waters again. It was nice to see John smiling though. Sullen as of late, sass and sarcasm were the only languages he spoke these days. While Arthur was fluent in both, his anger was confusing. Maybe the brat was envious Arthur could come and go as he pleased—a freedom he had been abusing lately to visit the Gillis Manor in secret—whereas John was expected to stay near camp. Then again, he remembered being that age. Frustrated and furious at the world, at all the things he couldn’t control, at himself mostly. Hosea asked him to be patient with the boy and not wanting to disappoint him, Arthur tried his hardest.

“You sure there’s no trick to finding leads?” John whispered.

Arthur took a leisurely sip of beer. “Nah, just gotta eavesdrop without drawin’ attention to yourself and ask the right questions so people will talk more than they should.”

While they lacked Dutch and Hosea’s ability to lure leads using charm as bait, the two weren’t hopeless. Arthur cut an intimidating figure that sometimes worked in his favor, other times people were more willing to open up to John, his dumb and earnest young man persona not really an act. The two listened in on talk of the mayoral election results, rumors of affairs, and complaints about work.

“I’m telling y’all it was fixed in Thompson’s favor,” a loud-mouthed farmhand stated, slapping money down on the table.

Despite not having the faintest idea who the three poker players were discussing, Arthur glanced over his shoulder. “What makes you say that? Heard he won fair and square.”

“Well sir, not to imply you’re a liar or something,” the man replied, unease rankling his deep voice. “It’s just my wife said she saw some O’Driscolls at the voting booth threatening men in line. Ah shit, fold.” He tossed his cards aside. “Betcha they stuffed the ballot boxes too.”

“A mockery of democracy, if ya ask me,” the dealer sniffed and several nods ensued.

“The O’Driscolls? Around here?” John’s voice wavered. “Does the sheriff know? They’re awful dangerous—”

“Relax, kid.” The third stranger pulled his winnings towards him. “Just stay away from the Heartland Overflow. They’ve been lurking about there lately.”

While not the sort of lead he was going for, Arthur nevertheless tucked the information away. Nothing put Dutch in a good mood like pissing off Colm O’Driscoll and raiding their camps always yielded a nice profit. Arthur slid his half-empty bottle over to a delighted John and nodded towards the doors.

John nearly choked as he took a swig. “You tired, old man? Ain’t even nine yet!”

There was that attitude again. Arthur rose in response. He was planning to visit Mary tomorrow and wanted to be well-rested. “Past your bedtime, kid.”

“Let’s play some poker or—”

“Marston. I ain’t asking.”

John’s pout became a snarl, teeth clenched to hold in whatever was on the tip of his tongue. The kid could never hold back though, not with Arthur glaring down at him.

“She know you’re an outlaw?”

\--

Courting Mary was a bit like traversing a battlefield blindfolded—Arthur had no idea what he was doing and suspected an abrupt end after a wrong step. It was hard to navigate in the shade of a family so far above his station that her parents acted as though they had to bend to see him. Her mother was like the women in those Jane Austen books Annabelle and Bessie adored; prim and proper, thoughts concealed behind a cool smile. While her manners prevented any outward hostility, he got the feeling she considered Arthur a bad habit Mary would outgrow. Her father however, a draft practically rolled off the man. Mr. Gillis had extended his gratitude for rescuing his daughter like a corpse, somehow stiffer than his top hat. Things had only gotten worse since then, always spewing hatred and snide remarks. The man could see the nasty wolf inside sheep’s clothing and gazed upon Arthur like hunters do predators: something to be eliminated. Her little brother was the only one who didn’t resent Arthur’s existence.

Young ladies required a chaperone to spend time with suitors but Mary couldn’t get one given her parents’ disapproval. The only way Arthur could be near her was by working odd jobs at the Gillis Manor. Something always needed to be done. The gazebo roof needed fixing. Rabbits needed to be cleared from their gardens. The stables needed tending too. Arthur never complained, simply happy a fine lady such as Mary even wanted to be around him. He tried to make the best of things. Arthur would dress well and would not enter the manor without a bouquet in his hands. (They used to be freshly picked until that one time a bug hid inside. When she slipped into the next room to place them in a vase, she screamed as if being attacked and Arthur ran in revolver-first. Now he was a regular at the local florist and his firearms were secured on Grace).

Out of all the work he did for the Gillis family, teaching Jamie to ride was his favorite. Bright-eyed yet shy, the boy was attentive and treated Arthur’s instructions as gospel, following them to the best of his ability.

“Mr. Morgan! Watch me!” Jamie shouted when Arthur’s eyes lingered on Mary, sitting beneath the largest oak tree on their lawn. Her appreciative smile was poorly hidden behind her silk fan. Arthur was certain there was nothing he wouldn’t do to make that woman happy.

“I’m watchin’, kid.”

He bit his lip, remembering another boy he had once taught. Always monkeying around, easily frustrated, and forever desperate to get to “the fun stuff,” John wasn’t the easiest of students. He would whine, wanting to race and do jumps long before he was ready. Rather than risk John’s neck he would hold the boy tight to his chest and have Grace tear across a field, sailing over every fence possible just to make him laugh with glee. Despite his silliness, John was now a fine horseman, though Arthur would sooner cut out his tongue than tell the boy that.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Mary smiled after Jamie was called inside.

“Hm. Please your father?”

She laughed at first while Arthur silently scolded himself for speaking without thinking, but then it petered out into a sigh. “I’m sorry he’s so cruel. I wish daddy could see what a lovely man you are.”

John’s biting question rattled around in his head like a coin in a beggar’s can, crystal clear and hard to ignore. It was indirectly repeated when he revealed his not-so-secret secret to Dutch and Hosea. Apparently returning to camp with a lovestruck face one too many times had given him away.

“Have you told her about us?” Dutch’s eyes lifted from the rifle he was cleaning to stare Arthur down.

“No, of course not! I’d never betray you like that.”

Hosea gave his partner a stern look, then placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “We’re happy for you, son, but lies aren’t a good foundation for love.”

He was right. Hosea was always right. Withholding the truth was lying. Mary’s admiration was based out of ignorance; the truth would dull the sparkle in her dark eyes and Arthur couldn’t bare it. Would it be so bad to pretend for a bit longer that he wasn’t just an unthinking beast, that he was more than a dirty backroom brawler and murderer? Arthur so badly wanted to be the good man she thought he was.

“You’re wonderful with children,” Mary added. “Most men I know don’t have any patience for them.”

“Suppose I’ve had a lot of practice.” Arthur tugged at a loose thread on the checkered blanket beneath them. He needed something to distract him from the urge to place his hand on hers. “My brother’s a handful.”

Mary hummed with a pinched expression. What had he said that displeased her? “We’ve known each other for two months and until today you’ve never breathed a word of your family. I know so little about you.”

“Ain’t much to tell. I lead a dull life.”

Great. Now he was outright lying to her. Mary gave him that flat look people often used whenever he skirted around the truth.

“Yet somehow your face is plastered on the wall of every sheriff’s office in New Hanover.”

During a bar brawl once, Arthur once took a knife to the gut. That’s kind of how he felt right now. Unable to speak, Mary saved him from conjuring up some half-assed lie. “Daddy was only too happy to thrust your wanted poster under my nose. I thought it was a joke. How could my sweet Arthur be capable of such depravity—”

“I’m not a good man,” Arthur blurted out. “I’ve never been. I’ve done awful things, Mary, terrible things. Even before I was an outlaw. Doubt I’ve ever done an honest day’s work in my life.” He stood up with some difficulty, gravity seemed to be pressing down harder. “I know I should’ve been honest from the start, but I—why hasn’t your father had me arrested?”

“I begged him not to.” She placed a delicate hand upon his cheek. Arthur melted into her touch, closing his eyes, basking in the warmth of her palm. “I’m going to say to you the same thing I said to him. What you do isn’t who you are. I’ve seen the real you. There is goodness in your soul, Arthur Morgan. Circumstance has placed you in chains but I know if you had the chance to break free, you would.”

His eyes flashed open. Arthur had expected her to send him away. How could Mary know about his yearning to be more than the life he led? From her lips, such thoughts didn’t sound so treacherous. Arthur wasn’t a good man, but maybe with her he could be. Unable to voice his thoughts, but desperate to express how he felt, Arthur pulled Mary behind the tree and pressed his lips to hers. A chaste kiss taken on bated breath, he waited for her to shove him away in disgust.

But she didn’t.

\--

“I’m telling you those hillbillies got the money stashed away somewhere.”

“And I’m tellin’ you, Marston, you’re full of shit. This ain’t a lead. It’s a hunch.”

Among the chirping crickets and the restless stirring of young cattle, Arthur and John crouched behind barrels of oats and water, peering at a cluster of darkened farmhouses. Down yonder quite the party was underway. Drunken cheers accompanied the bouncing twang of banjos and fiddles as shadows danced in his binoculars. Greed implored them to take advantage of this golden thieving opportunity, but their focus remained on the decrepit small farm that reeked of sheep and hog shit alike. The wood of the barn was curling with rot, the fence was falling apart, and their half dozen pigs stretched out in the cool mud of their pen were skinny as anything. The rumor mill churned out a tale that was starting to look real tall about how these farmers were behind the robbery of the store and saloon at Emerald Ranch a few weeks back.

“See that combine harvester over there? It’s one of those fancy ones, self-propelled or somethin’. How could shit farmers afford that? Their corn ain’t even been harvested yet.”

Arthur lit a cigarette. “This has bad business written all over it.”

“Then don’t come,” John shrugged, going for nonchalance but his narrowed eyes wrecked it. “I can do this alone. Been on my own a lot lately.”

“Sneaking out ain’t an accomplishment, especially how you do it.”

The right way was to slip off late and come back before dawn, but John tried to leave camp whenever he felt like it and usually got caught before he could steal one of their horses. On those rare occasions were he was successful, John rode back in at varying hours and was always shocked by how livid Dutch and Hosea were. Some days he’d return with busted knuckles and a split lip, another time his inner raccoon emerged in the form of two black eyes. It was like he wanted to get into trouble, wanted to be burdened with extra chores, wanted to get torn apart by his elders.

“And I’m sure Dutch and Hosea would like that.” Arthur blew out a puff of smoke. “Me sittin’ back while their precious Golden Boy blunders through yet another job.”

John snatched the cigarette, grinning around it as he took a long drag. “You ever gonna quit being jealous?”

“You ever gonna quit actin’ like a child?”

John scoffed, jumping the fence with Arthur snickering behind him. Although Dutch and Hosea’s wrath following the firearms fiasco barred John from jobs, once he turned sixteen there was talk of the boy earning his keep. The brothers were equally shocked. This wore off though upon realizing it was a ploy to keep the idiot from pulling another foolhardy stunt. Always the lookout, always the bit player in cons, they kept their overgrown wild child useful yet relatively safe. Desperate to prove their coddling was needless, he tried to find his own leads. John had been so excited to tell Dutch about this potential job, only to have his spirits dashed when Arthur was told to look into it. The heartbroken look on his dumb face gnawed away at Arthur until he cracked and brought the fool along. Not that he was grateful or anything.

“Go check the barn, kid. Keep an eye on the road from the loft window. I’ll take care of the shed and house.”

“This is my lead, not yours!” John tossed the cigarette away harder than necessary. “Quit bossing me around. You ain’t Dutch or Hosea.”

 “You’re lucky I ain’t. If I were, you’d be trapped by the fence post to keep an eye out. Now shut up and get in that barn. Don’t want to hear another word outta your mouth.”

Ornery as a burr-covered pony, John stomped off; squishing and squashing the mud beneath his boots. After sketching, riling up John was his favorite pastime. He just made it so easy. Dynamite with a short fuse. Always ready to go off. With strangers, often it was a toss up between what he’d shoot first: his revolver or his mouth.

No bigger than an outhouse, the tool shed still had an odd assortment of locks. Arthur worked his way through, gaze shifting between John’s blackened outline prowling around the second floor of the barn and the lantern lights in the distance where clapping, stomping, and laughter had overridden the lively music. Arthur snorted. Good thing Mary couldn’t see him now. Ankle-deep in manure, sweating like a hog thanks to the humidity, robbing unsuspecting hillbillies—he’d have to scrub himself raw before even considering gracing her doorstep again.

His efforts were rewarded with a wall of ammunition and Arthur’s fingers wiggled before he began plucking cartridge boxes from the shelves, stuffing them into his satchel. A shriek and a loud crash of splintering wood brought his joy and the music to a swift halt. Plumes of dust billowed out from the barn and murderous bleating erupted. Before Arthur could storm over and strangle John for the ruckus, the fool burst through the doors with five angry sheep hot on his tail. Arthur threw his head back and laughed so hard he was forced to clutch onto the shed for support. At least ten angry party-goers bounded down the lane with shotguns as John ran straight out the gate. The sheep spilled out onto the road, scampering off in various directions.

“Someone’s tryin’ to steal our sheep! Get ‘em!”

Out of breath from his chest-shaking laughter, Arthur was wheezing by the time he disappeared into the corn field. The stalks towered high above, only slivers of the pale moon shone through as he crouched, trying to gulp down deep breaths.

“Ain’t that funny, Morgan,” John grumbled, rustling the corn as he crawled over. Covered in filth and clumps of dry hay, the scowling boy shoved a wad of cash into his hands. Arthur bit his inner cheek hard to suppress a second round of uproarious laughter.

“Came here to steal, Marston. Not wreck the place.”

“It weren’t my fault! The floor broke beneath me!”

As deafening blasts and drunken threats drew near, they weaved between the tight rows in the hopes of sparking confusion. Although the accuracy of intoxicated hillbillies was questionable, Arthur pushed John in front so his larger body would protect him from any stray bullets. They whistled for Grace and Lady Luck early and the two burst out from the corn and dove onto their saddles, riding off before their pursuers likely knew they were gone.

Hours later after the humidity had broken and they had bathed in the river—Miss Grimshaw nearly threw a fit, promising to skin them alive and toss their carcasses to the jackals if they set foot near her kitchen—the two sat together on a log, cooking hunks of fish over the campfire.

“Wish we could’ve taken a look inside their house,” John grumbled. “Guess you were right. All I do is blunder through everything.”

Arthur frowned, never sure how to respond when John tore himself down. “A hundred dollars is a hundred dollars, kid.”

No reply came. John was too busy picking at his food like a bird, something he always did when caught up in his head. Arthur nudged him with his leg, jolting the boy out of his woolgathering.

“Oh, uh, sorry. Just thinking ‘bout stuff.”

“Huh.” He popped a piece of fish into his mouth. “Didn’t know you were capable of that.”

John elbowed him playfully. “I was just thinking that tonight was fun.”

“What part? The angry mob or angrier sheep?”

“No, stupid. I meant—” John gave a sigh of frustration. “Nothing. Forget it.”

\--

“Oh, he’s so precious,” Mary smiled, obliging Copper’s request for a belly rub. “How long have you had him?”

“Four years now,” Arthur replied. “Found him as a puppy freezin’ on the roadside a couple of months before we rescued Marston. Guess we have a habit of—” Speak of the devil, there he was now. Damp with sweat as he slipped off Lady Luck with Miss Grimshaw’s requested supplies in hand. “—pickin’ up half-starved strays.”

Wide-eyed with uncertainty, the manner in which John met Mary reminded Arthur a bit of him meeting Copper. Having been terrorized by one too many guard dogs, his loud barks had the kid hiding behind him. Only when Arthur gave John a reassuring look did the boy approach, instantly warming up to Copper when he realized the coonhound wasn’t going to bite him. Clearly scared of doing something wrong, once more John waited for Arthur’s permission. A simple nod did it.

“Hi,” he said with a shy smile, holding out his hand. Polite and subdued, Hosea must have warned the boy to be on his best behavior. “I’m John. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you too.” Mary returned his smile but withheld her hand. The dirt smeared on his skin would stain her silk gloves. John briskly wiped his hand on his pants before shoving it in his pocket, looking abashed. “Arthur always speaks so fondly of you.”

His brows furrowed. “That so?”

Her lips grew thin at John unintentionally calling her bluff. He didn’t seem to know rich folks sometimes said false niceties to make conversation. Or maybe he didn’t care.

Mary tried again. “What a lovely horse you have. What’s her name?”

“Oh, that’s Lady Luck. She ain’t mine. Had to get some stuff in town so I stole her.” Mary blanched and John quickly added, “I mean borrowed her! From Hosea.”

From the look on her face, it didn’t take a genius to see that Mary had sized him up and had drawn a poor conclusion. Long hair wild, clothes in disarray, gun at his hip—John probably matched the image of an outlaw floating around in her head.

Fortunately, Dutch and Hosea chose that moment to make their grand entrance, beaming like proud parents with the full extent of their gentlemanly charm on display.

“Why Miss Gillis, you’re even more beautiful than Arthur described.”

She placed her hand in the crook of Dutch’s offered arm. “No wonder he kept you to himself for so long.”

That afternoon stories and laughter were traded with ease and Arthur’s face grew sore from smiling so much. With her pale skirt fanned out like the white magnolias in the valley, bun unraveling slowly as the wind swept her hair, Mary was a vision. She belonged out here under the open skies and shining sun. If only this were permanent, if only he could always have her by his side. Instead Arthur was expected to bring Mary back to her friend’s house by six, to maintain the ruse that she had been there the whole time.

Having finally brought his two lives together, Arthur wondered why he was ever scared of this. Everyone here wanted him to be happy. Even Miss Grimshaw, who had no patience for “uppity society ladies” ever since Dutch shoved her off his lap to make room for Annabelle, had an encouraging smile. It crumbled though when she glanced at John. Arthur had forgotten the boy was there, having barely spoken a word, choosing to stare quietly at the grass instead.

“Mr. Marston, I just realized we don’t have enough for tonight’s dinner. Could you go fetch us a turkey?”

Arthur frowned at the lie, but John had bounced up before she even finished her sentence. “Sure thing, Miss Grimshaw.”

\--

Over the last four years, heaven knows how many times Arthur wanted to knock some sense into John or at the very least box his ears. A foul-mouthed, sticky-fingered, all-around brat, no one deserved it more. Arthur never did though. Memories got in the way. Having to convince a trembling twelve-year-old that no one was going to hurt him. His own skin and mother’s turned black and blue; pleas always ignored. Many of his old wounds still bled out through cold sweat in the early morning hours. As he grew, the hands that had tormented him became his own; big and clumsy, only good for inflicting pain. He didn’t want to be like his father, but some days he was—and others he was worse.

The next time John snuck out he made the mistake of stealing Grace on a morning Arthur was supposed to visit Mary. Like an enraged bull stomping around his cage, steam billowing from his nose, Arthur was rearing to attack when the fool rode back in around noon.

“Mind tellin’ me just what the hell is your problem?”

John initially shrunk in upon himself at Arthur’s raised voice, but then straightened his back, refusing to be cowed. “Surprised to see you here. Usually you’re gone by now.”

“I’m still here because _someone_ took my God damn horse!”

He shrugged, easing down from Grace and strolling into camp without looking at Arthur. “Figured you’d grab Admiral or something since Mary is so damn important.”

Venom practically oozed from his lips as he spat out her name and an overdue realization hit Arthur with the force of a sledgehammer. Arthur grabbed his arm, but John shoved him off.

“What’s the matter, Johnny? Thought it was my attention you wanted.” He stretched his arms out. “That’s what all this nonsense has been about, ain’t it? You’ve been God damn jealous this whole time!”

John recoiled, his face growing red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, I think you do, boy. I know you. Can’t go a day without being the center of attention. Can’t handle me not spending every damn day with you anymore.” Arthur chuckled mirthlessly. “Marston, you’d be one cheap whore. Reckon all a fella would have to do is look at you and that’d be payment enough.”

His head snapped to the left sharply when John’s fist collided with his cheek. Arthur turned slowly, fists clenching in the face of a dog-like snarl and glossy brown eyes blinking rapidly. John wasn’t a terrified child anymore. He was grown, full of fire, and ready to strike again. He lunged forward, but Arthur was on him. He slammed John into the dirt. John hit his chest and face, tried to knee him in the groin until Arthur straddled him and drove his fist into his face. Once was enough. The cartilage crunched beneath his knuckles; blood ruptured and John cried out. He clawed at Arthur’s face, nails tearing the skin of his forehead and cheeks, before he pinned John’s arms by his head. John refused to give up. Writhing with all his might, trying to escape Arthur’s grasp, screaming every filthy word imaginable.

Two pairs of hands ripped Arthur off John. Still in a rage, he tried to throw off Dutch and Hosea, only to receive a swift slap across the face that sobered him up instantly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dutch yelled, dragging Arthur away. “Have you lost your God damn mind? John is your brother!”

“I—I don’t—”

Arthur had no answer, no excuse for what he had just did. Hosea went to help John stand up, but the boy was trying to scoot away. He shook his head, covering his face poorly. Hands, eyes, mouth, and shirt stained crimson.

“Get the hell out of my sight and don’t come back until you’ve cooled off!”


	9. How to Grow Warmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After proposing to Mary and making plans to run away with her and abstain from crime, Arthur struggles with the thought of leaving the gang and doesn't know how to navigate the tension between John and him. Meanwhile Dutch and Hosea have their sights set on robbing a train.

When rain came for the Heartlands it brought everything it had; the heavens drowning the earth as if Noah’s Ark was due for a second voyage. There was something beautiful about how it could wash away all the filth, leave the world glimmering with dew and renewal. It was almost calming to watch the lake dance in bouncing splashes, to hear it patter against the canvas roof he found himself under with Mary. Any heartache over their washed out picnic eroded when he realized his tent was their only refuge. Now her head lay upon his chest and hand rightfully over his heart. Problems lost behind a veil of water.

“What exactly are your intentions for my daughter?” Mr. Gillis had asked, blowing cigar smoke into the air with all the unearned arrogance men born into wealth seemed to possess. “Other than to ruin her good name and waste all of our time?”

Yet another secret outing had been missed—the law had chased him across the county after a stagecoach robbery—and Mary wouldn’t come downstairs. He would sneak around back and climb up into her bedroom later to apologize profusely, but for that time he was trapped with her father. How so foul a man could produce such lovely children was a mystery no sleuth could solve. He always spoke of how Arthur would never amount to anything other than dead weight at the end of a noose. How he would always be a degenerate even if he turned his life around. How a life with him would cut her own short. He would not be cowed however, not by someone who belittled him routinely yet readily exploited his labor.

“I’m going to marry her.”

Mr. Gillis had no response other than laughter and somehow that was worse than any insult. His fists longed to bury themselves in the bastard’s smug face, but Arthur knew a trap when he saw one. Violence would be a gift. Instead Arthur left without being excused, head held high with the knowledge that Mary loved him and their love was true. She had already said yes.

“What are you thinking, Arthur?”

Mary pressed a featherlight kiss to his jaw; clean-shaven ever since he started courting her. He smiled like a fool. She had been sneaking out more and more and between picnics by the lake, racing on horseback across grassy meadows, seeing shows and taking pictures together, the past month had offered countless undeserved glimpses of heaven.

“That I could stay like this forever.”

“Me too.”

Although silent, the swell of his heartbeat and flush of his skin likely told Mary how she made him feel. She chuckled softly and it did nothing to quell the urge to cross the bridge from fabric to skin; to cast propriety aside and give himself to her. Yet his hands remained still. The promise of her and how she would forever be part of his tomorrow was enough.

“Do you ever wish you could runaway?” A soft, nervous question. “Leave everything and start anew?”

“Sure. Head west and keep on ‘til I can’t go no more,” Arthur sighed with a regretful smile. “Just a dream though. Where’s this comin’ from?”

“I’m just tired, I suppose. Tired of being treated like some sort of marionette with strings to be pulled.” Arthur furrowed his brows, watching her twist the ring he had placed on her finger. “Why does it have to be only a dream? Why can’t we head west? Go until we’re standing with our feet in the Pacific Ocean?”

His silence said what he couldn’t. “Oh Arthur, I wish you could see the man I see. The man I love. You don’t realize how capable you are. You don’t need them. You were meant for more than a life of crime.”

From her lips it sounded simple; a truth like how the sun always rises in the east. Gentle fingertips traced where John’s scratches, a mark of his depravity, once marred his skin. Despite all his flaws and failures, Mary always forgave. How someone so pure and beautiful could love a wretch like him was baffling. He needed to be better for her. Maybe, just maybe, he could make that dream real.

“If you wanna run, I’ll run. There ain’t nothin’ in the world I wouldn’t do for you, Mary.”

Her smile faltered. “Would you stop being an outlaw for me?”

\--

Back from a successful hunt Hosea and Arthur were taking a breather in the shade. Dutch was off to the side with his sleeves rolled up; vibrant green waistcoat somehow unmarred by the carnage as he jumped between explaining the finer points of carving up a stag with John and discussing his next plan with Hosea. Arthur sat quietly, too caught up in memories to listen.

“When I said cool off, I meant take a break not a vacation!” Dutch had laughed when Arthur returned to camp after almost two cowardly weeks away. He had to raise his voice over Copper’s ecstatic barking. Meanwhile Hosea embraced Arthur tight enough to test the strength of his ribs.

Heart heavy with the possibility Dutch and Hosea may not want him around anymore, Arthur was shocked when his return was met with literal open arms. Even Miss Grimshaw’s scowling melted into gratitude over his being safe. Their instant forgiveness left him shame-faced, his proposal to Mary a secret. The only thing that made Arthur feel worse was John standing shyly off to the side, hiding the lingering traces of bruises and a now slightly crooked nose behind his hair.

“I was already ugly,” John muttered when Arthur mentioned it, retracting his hand from the boy’s shoulder when he flinched. “It’s fine.”

All attempts at an apology were similarly brushed off with John blaming himself for provoking Arthur or feigning indifference. A month had passed and still they were two fools playing chess with their hands paralyzed. What was the right move? Arthur didn’t know how to fix things any better than he could navigate a chessboard. Rather than make another mistake, he gave John as much space as possible, hoping the boy would forgive him before he left the gang.

Maybe it was better if John hated him. Arthur wasn’t worth missing.

“Arthur, tonight you’re going to head to the Heartland Overflow and scout out where to board the train and at what point we need to stop it.” Dutch stabbed a knife into the underbelly of the carcass, then guided John’s hand. “Can’t be too out in the open, but it also can’t be too close to that bridge Colm is planning to blow.”

“With the new Southern and Eastern line nearly complete, we think they have their sights set on the cargo train from Washington.” Hosea said, nose deep in the New Hanover Gazette. “There’s a rumor it’ll transport bank funds, among other things.”

“Excellent, son. Keep your hand straight like that.” Dutch grinned wildly. “I’d give anything to see Colm’s face when he realizes someone beat him at his own game.”

“If you really want to rub salt in that wound we could dress up as O’Driscolls. Might help keep the law off our backs.”

He threw back his head with a sharp laugh. “Mr. Matthews, sometimes you are truly brilliant.”

“Sometimes?”

Dutch grinned again, before manipulating the boy’s hands to separate the fur from the carcass. “John will round up our horses and bring them over while we search and deal with obstacles on board.”

“I can help search—”

“Someone has to keep an eye out, Marston,” Arthur pointed out. “The O’Driscolls will come when the train doesn’t arrive on-time.”

John glared but sadly didn’t argue nor toss out any stupid comments.

The conversation lapsed, leaving Arthur to fight his treacherous thoughts as he tried in vain to nap, hat blocking the light. Why hadn’t he told the gang yet that he was planning to get married? That he was planning to leave? Oh right, right. Cowardice. Scared to face questions he had no heart to answer. What about that promise to not commit anymore crimes? Surely Mary would understand. They needed money to start new lives. He couldn’t leave the gang high and dry.

After admiring their top-dollar pelt, Dutch led John off to wash up. Once gone Hosea set the paper aside. “Do you know how many times we caught John trying to sneak off to go track you down?” He removed Arthur’s hat. “Too many. Dutch was so fed up I was sure he’d drown him in the creek.”

Not sure what to make of that, Arthur kept his eyes shut but Hosea wasn’t buying it. “You seem to have forgotten what John was like when we first rescued him. Before he came out of his shell and never went back in.”

“What you gettin’ at?”

He hadn’t forgotten. He just didn’t like thinking about those days. Convinced their kindness was a trick to lure him into a false sense of security so they could hurt him, John’s near permanent scowl was a poor mask for how terrified he was.

“Is it really a surprise he’s been acting a fool ever since he lost his spot at your side? Before you, John was a child who hadn’t experienced much love or even kindness in his life. Look at him and tell me that’s not someone who still thinks the world of his brother. Fight or no fight.”

Thumbs looped in his belt, face serious as Dutch handed him a rifle for guard duty, the boy’s eyes sought out Arthur as they always did. Although brief, the stare made John duck his head under the floppy hat he had stolen. He went off, gait slow and chest puffed. A baby chick pretending to be a rooster. Always wanting to seem bigger and older. Always wanting attention; whether it was good or bad didn’t matter. He just wanted to be seen.

“That’s just Johnny being is usual dumb self,” he muttered, squirming in his seat. Hosea sighed heavily, maybe wondering why God gave him fools for sons. Arthur appreciated what he was trying to do, but now all he could think about was how hard it was going to be to leave John behind. “I can’t always be here for him. I need to live my own life.”

“I know, son.” The corners of his lips puckered, likely sensing Arthur was hiding something. Damn him. Always able to read him like one of his crime novels. “He’ll come around.”

\--

Four vultures eyed their prey, a black snake chugging across an empty landscape. They descended. Soaring down the slope, gaining speed as they came up on either side. Bullets flew. Arthur’s grip around John’s middle tightened, pressing him down. They ducked and weaved until the sharpshooter vanished as the train barged forward. A flat platform rushed up from behind. He let go and John scooted as far forward as he could so Arthur could leap from the saddle. His body slammed into the wooden floorboards; rolling and whipping out his revolver before he joined Dutch and Hosea.

“You two head to the front, I’ll clear out the rear. We’ve got—” Dutch pulled out his pocket watch. “—five minutes before this train goes over the bridge and gets blown to high hell.”

“No pressure,” Arthur muttered.

“None at all!” Hosea laughed, slapping him on the back before leading the way.

Although mostly empty, save for a few employees lurking behind crates who were quickly thrown off after being disarmed or buffaloed, progression was slow. Traversing passenger trains was a breeze with their uniform boxcars. Here with the rises and dives of cargo like coal and cattle they were no different than mountaineers scaling across uneven terrain.

As they neared the guarded express car, a white and solid fortress, Arthur hid while Hosea casually strolled forward. Ever the actor, Hosea turned Irish and made a show of putting his Cattlemans away despite having two pistols set on his heart. “Evening, lads. I come asking for a favor. How about we stop this train?”

“You’re not in a position to be asking for anything, O’Driscoll,” the taller one sneered, pressing his gun harder into Hosea’s chest. Arthur’s finger traced the cold metal trigger. Now was not the time for mercy, not with the train chugging away like a ticking clock.

“Up ahead there’s explosives about.” Despite the green bandana over his mouth, the sternness of his face was evident. “Blow us all to hell unless we get the engineer to stop. Be a shame, it would, to die of something so trivial as pride.”

Both flinched and froze in horror when their uncertainty was mirrored by the other.

“We don’t have time for this!” Arthur growled, storming out of the shadows. This was his last job and damn it, he was going to make sure it went down as planned.

When their aim shifted to Arthur, Hosea shot from the hip, blasting their pistols from their hands. Arthur barreled forward, scaling up the car, running towards the locomotive. Rather than waste time arguing, he tackled the engineer and bashed his head into the floor until he was out cold. Arthur lunged forward, grasped the brakes, and pulled back as hard as he could to bring the train to a screeching halt.

Panting heavily as he returned to the express car, Hosea had the guards on their knees with their hands up high. Alight with excitement, John eagerly scoped out the distance with Arthur’s binoculars. Admiral, Lady Luck, and Grace were waiting and ready.

He marched forward and banged his fist against the locked door. “Open up! Wells Fargo ain’t worth dying over.”

The expressman’s voice was muffled. “Go to hell!”

Dutch appeared by his side, pockets heavy with loot from less fortunate employees, and secured a piece of dynamite just below the lock.

“We’re opening this door whether you like it or not, dumbass!” Arthur snapped.

Maybe three seconds were allotted for the man to change his mind before the fuse was lit. An ear-splitting bang ruined the door and the silence of the night. Arthur dragged the unconscious and bleeding expressman out, leaving him on the grass by the terrified guards.

“It’d be wise to head south,” Hosea said sharply, accent still intact. “Seek shelter at one of the farms. Valentine is a wee bit far and this whole area will be crawling with more of us soon.”

There was no resistance this time, both fled without a second glance. Another bang came from the express car. Dutch held a less-than-amused expression but kept quiet as Hosea and Arthur joined him. Tight and cluttered, the car was full of bulging mailbags, rows of thin oak cabinets, and now smoke from a broken safe.

Ever since sobering up, the cold fury that once drove Hosea had gone the way of drink—only to be dabbled in sparingly. Dutch teased that the loss of Bessie had driven the devil out of him. Hosea had never liked killing but now he strove to abstain unless absolutely necessary. While Dutch said he was getting soft, Arthur preferred to think of it as growing warmer. The world had enough cold-hearted bastards like himself.

Arthur reached inside and pulled out stack after stack of bills. “We’re in business! Gotta be at least five thousand here.”

“The O’Driscolls are riding towards us!” John called out. “A whole lot of them!”

Dutch looked at his timepiece again. “They don’t waste time, do they? Neither should we.”

Burlap sacks heavy with the stolen cash, the three hurried to their horses. As Arthur got into the saddle, this time in front of John, a malicious smile consumed Dutch. He dashed to the locomotive, tossed the engineer’s unconscious body aside, and set the train back into motion.

“Thought we weren’t going to waste time.” Hosea’s voice was heavy with fond exasperation as Dutch pulled down his green bandana, revealing a shit-eating grin.

“What’s life without a bit of fun?”

\--

“But I didn’t do nothin’.” John stared at his cut like it was liable to slap his hands away.

“Nonsense.” Dutch ruffled John’s hair, their faces awash in the glow of the campfire. “You did exactly what I said. You earned this.”

A toothy grin was his only response, before snatching it from the table and plopping down to count the bills.

Dutch pressed Arthur’s cut into his hands. “You did a damn fine job. Be proud. I know I am.”

Too flustered to bat the praise away like he usually did, Arthur ducked his head and smiled under the shadow of his hat.

“The rest is for an orphanage down in West Elizabeth.” Hosea set aside a decent sum. “The money should be enough for them to make necessary renovations.”

Arthur’s head snapped up. “West Elizabeth?”

“We’ll be passing through on route to New Austin,” Dutch replied. “Figured we should get out of here, lest Colm or the law catch wind we were behind the robbery and destruction of the train. We’ll head out at first light.”

A poorer poker player there never was, Dutch and Hosea shared a mutual worried glance over Arthur’s obvious anguish. How could he be so foolish as to not realize they would need to flee the state? Staying behind alone wasn’t an option. Once Colm heard about fake O’Driscolls robbing the train he would know the Van der Linde Gang was behind it and hunt them. If Colm got wind of Mary—no, he wouldn’t go down that route. Mary had to flee with him tonight.

“Look, if this is about Mary—”

“I asked her to marry me, Dutch.”

Summer nights breathed life into forests, but all the animals and the rustling branches suddenly hushed as if nature was determined to torment Arthur with silence. Blank faces stared as time stretched out cruelly; the longest moment of his life.

“You’re kidding.” John blurted out, dropping his money on the ground.

Dutch, Hosea, and Miss Grimshaw gave John such a nasty look the boy shrank down as if trying to resemble a bump on the log in which he sat, before erupting into backslapping, congratulations, hugs, and handshakes. Arthur could barely get a word in.

“Ask her to wait for you.” Hosea gave his arm a sympathetic rub. “We’ll come back soon and then you can get married. You can write letters in the meantime.”

“I—I don’t wanna be apart from her,” Arthur admitted, his voice low and nervous. That was as close to the truth as he would venture.

“Then invite her to come with us!” Dutch squeezed his other shoulder. “You know I have no problem with women joining the gang.”

Their earnest desire to solve his dilemma left Arthur unable to meet their eye. When he returned with Mary in tow to explain they were running away together—there was no way she’d run with him if it was alongside the gang—they would hate him for his betrayal.

“Wait!” John called out, hurrying over as he jumped back into Grace’s saddle, mumbling an apology for forcing her into another long ride. Arthur dragged a shaky hand down his face. How was he going to make the boy understand?

Stumbling over his words and incapable of expressing how he felt, John instead shoved his wad of cash into Arthur’s hands. “She ain’t gonna join the gang,” he whispered so Dutch and Hosea wouldn’t hear. “You’ll need more money to start over.”

It was the most the boy had spoken to him in weeks and now Arthur wished he hadn’t opened his mouth. John knew his brother too well and had pieced together what had been left unsaid. The money clenched in his fist blurred as burning blossomed behind his eyes.

What the hell was wrong with him? Escape had been a secret desire held dear almost as long as he had been an outlaw. Now on the brink of leaving the only world he had known, guilt spread under his skin, turning his bones to rust and muscles to stone. Dutch and Hosea had taught him loyalty, his guiding principle, what he had tried to impart on John. Loyalty was his light in the dark. Could Arthur really snuff it out with his own hands?

\--

Like the thief in the night he was, Arthur snuck into Mary’s bedroom through her window. His beloved was sitting at her vanity in her white silk dressing gown, carefully brushing her long hair. “You know it isn’t proper for you to see me like this just yet.” She frowned and turned to face him. “Is something wrong?”

Heart pounding in his ears, Arthur almost couldn’t hear himself speak. “Came to say goodbye. For now. I have to leave New Hanover for a short while, but I’ll be back in a couple of months. I’ll write to you everyday—”

“What did you do?” She hissed, storming over full of a righteous anger that he had only gotten seldom peeks at during the time he had known her. “You promised me you’d stop being an outlaw!”

“We’ll need money to strike out on our own and I couldn’t just say no to Dutch!”

“Have you no mind of your own?” Mary stood toe-to-toe with him, crossing her arms tight over her chest. Despite being taller, Arthur felt so small in the face of her wrath. “Bet you’d lay down and die if Dutch asked!”

 “That’s not—darlin’, if I stay you’ll be in danger! I swear to you I’ll come back—”

“If you had kept your promise and earned your money honestly, the law or whomever you’re scared of wouldn’t be snapping at your heels!” She shook her head, taking a step back. “Daddy was right about you. You’ll never change. You’ll always be just a low-down, no-good outlaw.”

The pain of a bullet searing through his flesh and bone was nothing compared to what she had just said. He wanted to change. He wanted to be better. But Arthur was weak and depraved, he didn’t know how to break away from the gang without tearing his heart in two.

“I will not play second fiddle to Dutch. He is a man, Arthur, not the God you revere him as.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “We were supposed to run away together.”

Spite had replaced the blood in his veins, coursing through him like fire. “Alright, let’s go then.” Her eyes went wide as he grabbed her hands. “You and me. Right now. Let’s runaway to California. Dutch won’t be there. It’ll be just us.”

Mary stood there doing her best impression of a statue, all regal and white, frozen with the knowledge he had called her bluff. When she snatched her hands back, Arthur gave a most miserable laugh. “You’re a damn liar, Miss Gillis. Don’t matter how far you run. Daddy will always be pullin’ your strings.”

She slapped him, hard and swift. “How dare you. Do you really expect me to abandon my family for some criminal who can’t keep promises and can’t say no? What sort of life would we have? I know you. Eventually you’ll slide back into your old ways.”

His palms were probably bleeding from how hard his nails were digging into them. If only she’d give him more time to become better, to make things right. “Just hold on, darlin’. I swear I won’t be gone long. I’ll figure things out…”

His voice trailed off as the truth settled in. Neither wanted to give up the life they had and that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon. Even once the heat wore off and Arthur returned, Mr. Gillis would never give his blessing and Mary was too good to join the gang. Tears started to roll down her face. Arthur reached forward to hold her, but she evaded him, and began to twist the ring off her finger.

“Mary, please don’t—”

“Don’t make this harder than it already is.” She placed the gold band in his hands, voice cracking with deep sorrow. “Get out. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

\--

When Arthur awoke he had little recollection of the night before. It hurt to swallow, his throat dry and own tongue hairy and foul like a dead rat in his mouth. His stomach gurgled, eager to bubble up. Arthur hadn’t even opened his eyes, scared the action alone would cause the space between his brows to split open. The threadbare mattress below was definitely not his own. Despite his aching body, his chest hurt the most. He had taken love, something he had yearned for all his life, and tossed it away with both hands.

Where was he? How did he get here? The only thing he could make sense of was the arm wrapped around his middle. The smell of tobacco, day-old sweat, and something earthy; warm like the soil where crops bloomed in the sun.

“Johnny? How the—” Christ, he needed a drink of water; his mouth felt full of dirt. “How the hell did you find me?”

“Grimshaw wanted me to pick up some stuff before we left. I saw Grace at the saloon and had to peel you off the bar.” Despite the throbbing in his head, Arthur turned over to face John, wincing the whole way. “You look like shit, Arthur.”

“Ain’t no prize yourself.”

Eyes bloodshot and saddled with bags, John yawned wide and Arthur did the same. “Kinda hard to sleep. Thought I was never gonna see you again and then this morning I found you one drink away from the grave.” He retracted his arm. “You kept rolling onto your back like an idiot. Had to hold you up.”

“Should’ve let me choke on my own vomit.”

“Shut up.” John hit him hard in the chest, before scooting up and curling his twig-like legs so Arthur had room to roll onto his back. “Do you, uh, wanna talk ‘bout anything?”

“Don’t take a genius to figure out what happened.”

“If she can’t see how great you are then she don’t deserve you.”

Arthur would have laughed if not for the sincerity in John’s voice. “It’s my fault. I promised her I wouldn’t be an outlaw no more. We was planning on running away for weeks, but she finally saw me for what I was. What she’d be giving up for the likes of me.”

“Good. I don’t want you to leave.”

“There’s the selfish bastard I know.” Arthur snorted. “Damn near had a heart attack when you gave me your money.”

“I wanted you to be happy, dumbass.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t deserve to be happy. God gave me a good reminder of that last night.”

“That ain’t true!” John crossed his arms. “I don’t know nothin’ about women, but I know Mary was no Bessie or Annabelle. Not everyone is cut out for this life and that’s fine but I didn’t like that Mary wanted you to change—”

“For the better.”

“Yeah but, would she change for you?” Arthur gave a glare as his reply. “Exactly. You just gotta find your own Bessie. She didn’t try to change Hosea or make him feel lesser.”

“I want to be better though, Marston.”

John pouted like he always did when Arthur was being difficult. “You’re fine the way you are.”

\--

The Great Plains were beautiful in July. Open and free, sunlight came from the ground and the sky with the tall, dried grass swaying with the wind. With the taint of civilization reduced to a tiny outpost in the far east, a man could breathe. Sure, Arthur couldn’t wait for the sands of New Austin to sweep across his skin but here where the buffalo still roamed and horses ran wild, it was like stepping back in time, back where he belonged.

“That big black mare is real pretty. Flawless coat. Looks strong and healthy. Seems calm too.” John jerked his head to the side with that dumb smile of his. “How about her?”

A pack of grazing Thoroughbreds had caught Arthur’s eye while riding with John. He had taught the boy what to look for when searching for a horse to sell and wanted to see if he would pick the correct one.

Arthur nodded, handing over Grace’s reins. “Watch me real close. One day you’re gonna be taming horses too.”

Slow and steady, Arthur advanced towards the large mare, who looked weary but not overly frightened of him unlike the other horses who set off immediately. “Easy girl, easy. Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

He cooed at the mare even as he swung up onto her back, trying to ease her concerns the only way he knew how—through gentleness. The mare was feisty though, like the boy whose eyes were glued to the scene, kicking up a storm in a futile attempt to buck him off. Arthur would not be thrown though and it was his determination that won out.

“What do you think?” Arthur asked, looking down at John with a now content mare between his legs.

“Think I’m gonna fuckin’ die if I ever try that.”

“Watch your God damn mouth, Marston.” He gave the new girl a loving pat before he placed Grace’s saddle and bridle on her. “C’mere, I’ll take Grace.”

John hesitated at first, sticking out his hand so the mare could smell him. When she nickered against his palm, he lit up, and imitated Arthur’s tender ways before climbing up as well.

“Y’know what, kid? Reckon you look too good up on that horse to just give her away.”

“What? Thought we was gonna sell her.”

“Been lyin’ this whole time.” Arthur mounted Grace. “That mare is for you.”

John blinked slowly as if his two brain cells couldn’t register what had just been said. “I—you—really? She’s really mine?”

“Yes, you idiot. Consider this my underhanded way of gettin’ you to stop stealing our horses.”

John looked like he might cry, eyes wet and lips screwed up before that big smile of his took over. Not used to making someone so happy, Arthur shifted in his saddle. Despite his many failings, somehow he could still bring some joy into this world. His soul still ached for what he had lost, knowing deep down it had been more than just a woman. He was supposed to love Mary more than anything, but when it came down to it the gang was the real love of his life. Mr. Gillis was right. He’d never change. He’d always be nothing more than a worthless bastard, a thief and murderer.

At least he could still make his little brother happy. That wasn’t something to thumb his nose at.

“Reckon she needs a name.”

“Belle,” John said instantly, petting her neck so much you’d think she was a dog. “Hosea said that means pretty in French.”

“Look at you, gettin’ all fancy.”

“Oh, shut up.” John grinned slyly. “Belle is a lot younger than Grace. Bet we can get back to camp faster than you can.”

Arthur gave a long whistle. “You hear this fool talking shit ‘bout you, girl? Ain’t gonna let that stand, are we?”

Riding without a saddle was always an adventure that his body would come to regret, but he had a reputation to uphold and Grace’s honor to defend. He immediately took off with John right by his side. Where he belonged.


	10. How to Handle a Wild Animal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After John nearly gets them all killed, Dutch and Hosea force a reluctant Arthur to take him hunting in the hopes the boy will return with a better attitude. Turns out Arthur is the one who really needed some time away.

Cholla Springs was dry year-round, arid from the sun beating down like it had a grudge. Low-lying plants littered the ground; prickly and jagged to show their contempt for the rain that seldom came. Hard and unforgiving, the land didn’t care whether someone was trying to scratch out a living or civilization wanted to roll in. Open and free and beautiful in Arthur’s eyes—but damn if he didn’t miss trees right about now.

Four thieves had ridden off with their backs to the setting sun, shadows leading the way as seven bounty hunters pursued with dollar signs in their eyes and a thirst for blood on their tongues. the bastards had chased them all the way from Benedict Pass. Unable to shake them the four had splintered, secretly bound for the same destination: an abandoned barn east of Mercer Station. Slick with sweat, Arthur crept through the building hidden among the hills. Paint worn and rotten wood riddled with bullet holes, the place was one strong breeze from resembling what was left of the defunct train station a few miles away. The perfect spot to hide according to Dutch. We shall see.

Arthur crouched down in a horse stall filled with soiled hay and wilted straw. Squirrely as ever, John crawled along the rafters to keep watch from above. Dutch and Hosea slipped into opposing corners. Despite the dark, he could tell their faces were lit. The thrill of the chase always entertained even when they were the hunted.

For thirty minutes, there was little sound save for rats scurrying about until John whispered, “They’re coming from the south.”

There was a tell-tale click of a hammer being pulled back.

“Put that gun away, son,” Dutch warned. “Be good and quiet.”

Ah yes. Two things John was incapable of. Arthur covered his mouth to suppress a snort. His amusement was quickly dashed however at the rumble of hooves and boots hitting the ground. Lantern lights flickered through the crevices and holes, shining bigger and brighter as they drew near. Only three entered. The others circled outside like a pack of wolves.

Their search was cursory at best, not taking a second glance at the awkwardly big lump of hay, not noticing the gun-wielding gargoyle perched above their heads. Murmuring their disappointment, two retreated while the lingerer cautiously moved towards Hosea’s hiding spot. Pistol drawn. Arthur waited for the whish of a knife soaring straight into a throat. Instead he was treated to a loud bang as the back of the man’s skull was blown open.

“Marston, you God damn idiot!”

A hailstorm of bullets erupted, obliterating the walls and stalls. Arthur burst out of the hay and crawled past Dutch who was using the corpse as a shield, firing at those who tried to enter. He joined Hosea by the broken window and they shot back at the bounty hunters. A fiery streak burned the skin of his right shoulder, but Arthur gritted his teeth and kept firing until the shadow of a man ascending the barn fell over his eyes. John was missing from the rafters.

After all but throwing himself to the closest ladder, Arthur climbed three steps at a time with Hosea covering him from below. He hoisted himself through a gaping hole onto the roof. Across the way, John was scrambling in vain to reach his fallen revolver. On his back sat a grizzled bounty hunter full of scars, missing teeth, and the belly of a man who ate far too well. The empty click of his revolver had Arthur desperately grasping at his body. Shit. No bullets left. The hunter laughed at John who was in the throws of panic, swearing and thrashing helplessly until the man grabbed a fistful of his black hair and drew a knife. Arthur charged forward, ignoring how the wood creaked dangerously beneath.

“Let him go!” Arthur snarled, teeth bared with his empty revolver locked on the bounty hunter. “He ain’t worth shit.”

“This little rat sniped two of my men,” the man growled, pressing the blade just below the red strip of cloth around John’s neck.

“I have an actual price on my head, you fool. Leave him and I’ll come quietly.”

Chaos still rang out below, but up here where the chill of the desert night did little to cool tempers and moonlight glinted off the threatening blade, only John’s frantic breathing reached his ears. His presence usually calmed the boy no matter the trouble he was in, steadfast in his belief Arthur would always rescue him. Not tonight. He squirmed as if determined to cut his own throat, blood trickling down and staining his collar.

The bounty hunter dragged John slowly; knife still to his throat. The wood bent slightly under their weight. Despite his relief that the bluff had paid off, Arthur’s hard stare never wavered. He holstered his gun and raised his hands; remaining still with what he hoped was a distracting smirk. The bounty hunter stared at him—a cougar waiting to pounce—not realizing the danger was in his hands.

John slammed his head into the man’s nose and shoved his hands up, knocking the knife aside. Arthur sprang into action, tackling the bloodied bounty hunter. They went down hard, crashing through the roof. His stomach collided with his throat as death swept under. Bones crunched and squelched, piercing through flesh upon impact. Arthur’s limbs throbbed but the ache of a fracture was absent. Plumes of dust and hay particles clouded his vision. In the midst of a coughing fit, he rolled off the mangled corpse. Straw poked uncomfortably into his back. Dutch and Hosea were by his side with incredulous stares. A lucky bastard, they called him. Nah. That title belonged to the wide-eyed fool peering down through the hole in the roof, calling Arthur’s name.

\--

Showdowns between Dutch and John were short but ugly. After a childhood where a beating came with the slightest misstep, being in trouble used to send John into hiding. Nowadays he stood his ground, firing barbs as sharp as the ones thrown his way. Always believing he was in the right. Always unable to just shut the hell up. Maybe when his two brain cells finally matured, he would realize there was a time and a place to fight back. That was a while off. Young and wild and impossible to control, not even a swift backhand across the mouth could send John reeling—though Arthur sure as hell winced. Only Hosea’s voice, the one that brooked no argument, could silence him.

“Go to bed, John. We will discuss this tomorrow.”

Maybe it was because Hosea rarely expressed anger towards his idiot sons. Maybe it was because he was firm but fair and never resorted to nasty insults the way Arthur and Dutch did. Whatever it was, John never talked back to Hosea. Instead he stormed into their tent where Arthur lay as limp as a dead fish along the shoreline. Once they reached camp, falling a decent height finally caught up with him and rendered Arthur near useless at doing anything other than petting Copper. The coonhound rested on the ground, apparently intending to keep a bedside vigil.

“Just trying to help,” John grumbled while kicking off his boots.

“Y’know what would’ve been helpful? Not startin’ a shootout. But oh no, Little Johnny Marston don’t need to listen to anyone. He knows best.”

The fist curling fury from before took hold and round two seemed imminent, but John’s eyes lingered too long on Arthur and he simply drooped down onto his bare cot. The boy had given Arthur his pillow and blankets so his sore body would be more comfortable.

“Can I, uh, do anything? Get ya something?”

His cattleman would be nice, wanting to shoot John and then himself for thinking it was a smart idea to get into a brawl on a weak roof. But with the way his cheek and lips still bled from Dutch’s sharp rings and how he was laying his coat out as a makeshift blanket, Arthur sighed then flung out his arm expectantly. John’s split lip bled more as he smiled. He hastily wiped his face with his sleeves, shed most of his clothes, then dived under the warm covers. The kid latched onto him like a leech determined to suck up every ounce of warmth.

“You alright?” Arthur asked softly after a couple of minutes, wondering if the slap had actually rankled him given the tight hold. Half asleep, John’s head nodded once against his chest.

\--

Several days later, Dutch and Hosea were discussing the merits of highway robbery over coffee. Tumbleweed, a new boomtown out west, had traffic buzzing in and out like bees swarming a hive. Having been caught while scoping out the area however, Hosea was somewhat hesitant to return.

“Think of the money,” Dutch implored, handing his partner a cup of the fresh brew Arthur had made. He gestured towards Lake Don Julio, glimmering in the late morning sun. The closest thing New Austin had to an oasis. “People flow in and out of that town like water.”

“I’ll agree the area is ripe for the picking especially where the trails converge, but you’re forgetting that we’re not the only fortune seekers around.” Hosea blew on his coffee before taking a sip. “Gaptooth Ridge is littered with gangs far exceeding ours.”

Dutch snickered humorlessly. “Watch us do all the work and then get swarmed by the Jack Hall Gang.” They fell into an uneasy silence. Hosea lost in deep thought whereas a dreamy look slowly came over Dutch. A plan was starting to take shape. “You know, we could always—”

“You know how I feel about expanding the gang.”

Ready for a fight, Dutch grinned darkly. Before he could retort however, curses streamed from John and he glared at the back of the boy’s head bobbing above and below ground. “God damn. We never had this kind of trouble with you.”

Uncertain how to respond, Arthur stared at the plate he was drying. His body was stiff not broken, yet he was barred from anything other than simple tasks lest he wanted four people scolding him simultaneously. Arthur would be stir crazy by the week’s end. John too. Picking up the slack around camp drew no complaints, but now that he was sweat-soaked and trapped four feet deep in a new hole for the outhouse, John cursed everyone and everything with a wrinkle-inducing scowl. In all fairness, it was an unnecessary job. Their old spot was fine but Dutch could be sour as spoiled milk sometimes.

“Arthur and John have always been like day and night,” Hosea replied simply.

“Mr. Marston!” Miss Grimshaw snapped, glowering down at the boy with her hands on her hips. “If you don’t mind that mouth, I will have Mr. Morgan hold you down while I wash it out with soap!”

John never talked back to Miss Grimshaw either, but that had less to do with respect and more that he was terrified of her wrath. He was still bratty enough though to shrug in response, despite everyone knowing he would throw an absolute fit if that happened. She threw her hands up at the unruly boy before marching off. After wiping his brow and accidentally smearing the dirt on his skin into a muddy paste, John went back to stabbing the earth with his shovel with all the rage of a deranged killer. Every toss over his shoulder was accompanied by a grunt.

“Maybe some time away with his favorite person is what he needs,” Hosea mused.

Dutch put his lips together and tilted his head in consideration. Arthur didn’t realize who they were talking about until they both raised their brows at him.

“Wait, me? What about the robbery?”

Dutch waved his hand as he finished off his coffee. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll do that another time. Mr. Matthews and I will get up to our old tricks in Tumbleweed while you and John head north for some hunting.”

“Once you’ve healed up, of course,” Hosea added. “You’ve both worked hard over the last few months and this hasn’t been a pleasant year for either of you. Go have some fun.”

It took everything Arthur had to keep his jaw from falling ajar. Restless and talkative, no way in hell was his usual stance on John hunting with him. This was just Dutch and Hosea once again being unable to punish John for longer than a couple of days. Spoiling the brat even when they were upset with him.

Some time away from camp might be nice though. Arthur wasn’t much of a hunter; this trip could help him improve and help pull in some much needed cash. Not to mention John was bound for trouble again. He pretended not to care when Dutch and Hosea were mad, but for a boy raised on praise their disappointment cut him deep. The two were never forthcoming regarding forgiveness and sooner or later he’d do something stupid like try to rob an armed stagecoach alone in a misguided attempt to reclaim his status as the Golden Boy.

“Alright.”

\--

Tall Trees in October was almost too vibrant, too colorful to be anything but something ripped out of a vivid imagination. Swirls of orange and yellow topped towering redwoods and blanketed the forest floor beneath him. Strange how some things became more beautiful as they died.

Eye pressed to a scope, animals flashed before the cross-hair in a hurry to prepare for winter. Deer drank along the Lower Montana, ignorant of the predator above. While picking off one would be easy, Arthur held out for the elusive elk. At home out here among nature, he was happy to wait and enjoy the serenity. Times like these made Arthur wish he had options other than black at his disposal for his drawings, though he sincerely doubted he could truly capture the beauty of autumn. Not to mention he hadn’t sketched in months now.

Crunch! Crunch!

Hosea had been right. Temper left behind in New Austin, John was back to his cheerful (and irritating) self. His first time hunting big game, to say he was brimming with excitement was an understatement. Too bad that despite being a crack shot, the boy was a terrible hunter when it took more than ten minutes of his time. John had traded impatiently scanning the forest through a rifle for exploring the world around him.

“Damn it, Marston. You’re not an elephant. Quit stompin’ around like one.”

More six-year-old than sixteen, John stomped on over, crushing every dry leaf he could and accidentally scattering the deer. Arthur rolled his eyes. How a scrawny twig like John could make so much racket had long mystified him. Despite his size Arthur often kept his footsteps light, a habit left over from tiptoeing around his home as a child, scared to make a sound lest it set his father off.

John plopped down and had the audacity to look shocked at Arthur’s scowl. “What you mad about? Ain’t no elk nearby!”

A loud exhale streamed out his nose like steam from a kettle. The urge to smack the fool upside the head was strong, but his determination to never raise a hand to the boy again was stronger.

“You best not pull that shit when there are—unless you’re lookin’ to get skinned and sold over at Manzanita.”

“Doubt you’d get much for my worthless hide. Let’s go hunt some bears or something! Or how ‘bout I run through the bushes and flush out a bunch of animals?”

Rather than dignify any of that with an answer, Arthur started towards Grace and Belle. Daylight was dwindling and they needed to set up camp. John pouted but didn’t argue. Between the two of them it didn’t take long before their tents were ready, bedrolls were laid out, and they had eaten a rabbit roasted over the fire. John was now prattling on about one thing or another, leaning back on his hands with his neck craned to catch a glimpse of the stars twinkling through the trees.

“Why don’t you draw no more?” John asked abruptly.

He shrugged. “Haven’t felt like it, I suppose.”

“What happened? It’s been like four months since you…oh.”

Four months? Somehow both a lifetime and no time at all had passed since Mary left him. He would take physical pain over heartache any day. At least the former healed. Raw and fresh as ever, the wound bled all over every aspect of his life. His neglected journal was stained with her memory, with his foolish hopes and dreams now forever just words on a page. Did she even miss him? Arthur snorted. No one would ever miss a no-good outlaw.

Two cigarettes in hand, John lit them with the campfire and extended one. He relished the calm tobacco settled over his body, while the boy puffed away like he was hoping to draw something other than smoke into his lungs.

“If you had run off, would we have ever seen each other again?”

Not happy the conversation had circled back to something he was desperate to forget, Arthur took a long pull. “Sure,” he replied, dragging out the word. “Would’ve come crawlin’ back to Dutch eventually.” He spat in the fire. “I’ll never change.”

John winced at the underlying venom, worrying the cigarette perched on his lips before hiding beneath his limp, scraggly hair again. As bad a habit as his constant shrugging and poor attempts at nonchalance. Indifference was what made some an adult apparently.

“I think people can change,” he muttered softly.

With the flames flickering at random and smoke hovering in wisps, sometimes John’s young face was hollowed by the darkness into someone gaunt and tired, someone much older than a boy who still couldn’t grow facial hair. It was a trick of the eye, but no one knew better than Arthur what being an outlaw does to a person. Mirrors always rudely reminded him of this and he definitely didn’t like the one he was gazing at now. His stomach gurgled, heavy with the knowledge John was right. People can change. For the worse.

“Y’know when I used to think about gettin’ out, I always imagined that I’d be dragging your fool ass along with me.”

“You wouldn’t have to drag. If you asked, I’d go.”

Arthur stared at John in disbelief until the kid threw his cigarette into the fire and hid behind his hair again.

\--

“What do you think about Dutch’s plan to make the gang bigger?”

Deeper and deeper they waded into the forest. Although they hadn’t breached the snow line, here sunlight and sound were oddly sparse. Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. Like Hosea, his concerns revolved around trustworthiness and that more mouths meant more stealing which would only raise the price on their heads. But when Dutch spoke of wanting to save those who needed saving, of wanting a world without government where people could live free of the pressures of civilization—Arthur wanted that too. You need more than a couple of dreamers to bring a dream to life though. The gang had to grow and would grow. Dutch always got what he wanted.

“Not sure. After all, our most recent addition was a let down. Smart as a sack of hammers.” John gave him an exasperated look and Arthur laughed, “There’s safety in numbers though.”

“That’s Dutch talking. What do you think?”

Arthur recoiled and retreated under the brim of his hat. Sometimes he forgot how blunt the kid could be. “I dunno. Y’know I’m not much for thinking, Marston.”

“Reckon he just wants to do bigger heists to make more money.”

“You best keep that to yourself,” he warned. “Don’t wanna get slapped again.”

“I’ve had worse,” John scoffed and Arthur’s grip on the reins tightened. “He wouldn’t listen anyways. Dutch don’t listen to no one. Not when his heart is set.” His shoulders sagged as he gave Belle a gentle pat. “I like that we’re a family. I wanna stay that way.”

“That won’t change. The gang could grow to over a hundred people and you’d still be my brother.”

A ridiculously big grin consumed John’s face. “That’s the first time you called me that.”

Guilt rushed through him as cold and unyielding as any river. It should be obvious how much John meant to him, but clearly it wasn’t if that single sentence had made the kid so happy.

When did the switch happen? When did Arthur stop considering John just another camp chore and the boy became his brother? Was it the first time he covered for him when Arthur snuck out of camp for a night of debauchery? Was it when John admitted the nightmares that terrified him the most were the ones where Arthur died and he couldn’t save him? Was it when he noticed John lit up every time he returned to camp and Arthur had to grapple with the fact someone actually liked having him around? Then again since the boy fell from the noose, he couldn’t recall any point where he wouldn’t have protected him at all costs. John had been his brother from the start. Arthur just hadn’t realized it at the time.

Rather than flounder his way through a half-assed explanation, Arthur brought Grace to a halt. “Let’s just shut up and find some damned elk already.”

Perhaps to make up for acting like a fool yesterday or because he was so delighted by Arthur’s admission, John was on his best behavior. Borrowed rifle in hand, he followed him silently up a slope. They stretched out on their stomachs, partially concealed by shrubs, and peered through their scopes. John’s arm shot out, pointing at some trees in the distance.

“Easy, boy,” Arthur breathed when John’s finger tread too close to the trigger. “Give it time.”

Wearing a thick crown of antlers, the elk held its head high; regal as any stuffy monarch. Rather than being safely tucked away behind castle walls, the elk had thick trees to protect him. They had to wait for a clean shot. Eyeing a set of bushes, just as the elk took a step forward its head snapped up. It emitted a series of pleading whines that rolled over the dead leaves and up the moss-covered trees, warning all those around of danger before scampering off. Arthur and John swore in unison.

“Wonder what scared him off? He couldn’t have seen us.”

“Elk are skittish,” Arthur grunted, searching through his scope again. John crossed his legs and set his rifle aside. “Probably stepped on a branch and scared himself—wait! There he is.”

“Arthur!” John gasped, tugging at his coat frantically.

He brushed the boy’s hands away and crawled closer, readying his arms. He didn’t want to end this day without an elk pelt draped over Grace’s backside.

“Arthur!”

The elk fled again and Arthur dropped his rifle in frustration, running his hands over his face.

“Damn it, Marston! You—” John grabbed Arthur’s head and turned it sharply to the left. A grizzly bear was charging up towards them. “Sweet Jesus!”

The two shot off in opposite directions. Running was the wrong thing to do but with seven hundred pounds barreling towards him, instinct overrode knowledge. As the snaps of crushed twigs under heavy footsteps grew faint, Arthur skidded to a halt. The grizzly had gone after John. He darted back through the trees, weaving through low branches, reaching over his back for the rifle. Nothing. Like a fool, he had left it behind and only had his revolver to work with.

On its hind legs, the grizzly tried to swat John out of the tree. Its enraged roar rattled the leaves still clinging to their branches and the bones under Arthur’s skin. He opened fire. Although the bullets had all the impact of a mosquito bite, the bear changed its dinner plans. Arthur took a couple of steps back, dropping the gun in favor of his knife. All the air was knocked out of him when his back crashed into the forest floor. The world was lost behind snapping jaws, the stench of death, and a snout bigger than his fists. Arthur’s frantic slashes at the grizzly felt hopeless until thick blood poured onto his face and shoulders. The bear reared up, shaking its back. Gasping for air, Arthur had just enough time to scramble backwards on his elbows before the beast collapsed into a heap. Eyes wild and movements furious, John was on its back ramming his own knife over and over again into the bear’s neck.

Somewhat stunned, he simply laid there trying to blink the blood out of his eyes. John let out a strangled cry, clutching onto and shaking Arthur’s coat. Suspecting he looked seconds away from death, he winced his way into a seated position. The kid embraced him as tight as he did the night after the shootout. Arthur hugged him back.

“Crazy reckless bastard.”

“Stubborn old jackass.”

\--

“A blind man has better aim than you!” Arthur cackled as a snowball sailed over his head.

Having decided their pursuit of elk was cursed, the two spent the last week and a half hunting every other animal possible and made a decent amount of cash to bring home. Rather than head back to camp just yet, against his better judgment Arthur had caved to John’s pleading and took him up towards the Aurora Basin. A white winter wasn’t in store for them this year and the kid was adamant. Of course, the moment his boots hit the ground the brat immediately started spewing shit in the hopes of riling up Arthur into a snowball fight. It worked.

Smack!

Icy cold snow exploded against his face, knocking Arthur out of his woolgathering.

“Oh shit!” John’s face fell before he bolted. “Don’t kill me!”

Arthur tore after John with the same intensity of the grizzly bear that had tried to maul them, whipping snowballs at his back. The snow crunched loudly and John swore with every hit. They passed by their pair of southern belles who were stamping the wet ground impatiently, unamused by their owner’s antics. John sped through the snow-coated trees, his long legs granting him much needed speed. The problem was he had no clue where he was going, but Arthur did. The boy slowed down, panting, and spinning around as nervous as a cornered deer.

“Gotcha!” Arthur came from behind and tackled John to the ground. He went down with a shriek. “Don’t start fights you can’t finish, boy.”

John raised his head and spat out the snow in his mouth. “Get off me you—” He went still and his voice lowered. “Listen!”

The hollow whines of elk could be heard in the near distance. The two scrambled up and crept northward towards the sound. It took five minutes of straining their ears and walking as silently as they could through the snow to spot two males traveling together. John glanced at Arthur, seeking permission. When he nodded, the boy grabbed the rifle off his back. His stance was confident, face determined, and aim was true. The desire to commit this moment to memory grew and Arthur knew he’d be pulling out his journal tonight.

“I can’t.” John lowered his arms. “The other one will be sad.”

The force in which Arthur rolled his eyes left him surprised they didn’t pop out of their sockets. “Christ alive. You’ve always been a damned sap!”

He reached for the gun, but his hand froze on the barrel while watching the two elk who were simply milling about. Minding their own business. Peaceful and content.

“Damn it all.”

Arthur returned the rifle to a stupidly happy John. They decided to stick around for a bit, crouching down together. If Dutch and Hosea could see them now, covered in snow and watching elk eat berries, they’d probably wonder how they got landed with such fools for sons.

“We really need to head back,” he sighed. “Been gone longer than we should’ve. Dutch’ll take a strip off me when we show up.”

“Just blame me.” John brushed some snow off Arthur’s shoulders. “Say I ran off and you spent days tracking me down.”

“No. It’s my fault, not yours.”

The truth was Arthur had been having a wonderful time. Other than bears and equally vicious predators, he had little to worry about and seldom thought about Mary. It made him happy to see John as spirited and lively as ever; his sullen side lost somewhere in the woods. Arthur knew where he belonged though. Dutch and Hosea had raised him better than to neglect his responsibilities.

“One more day?”

“You asked for that yesterday. Don’t you wanna go back? Dutch and Hosea are gonna be fallin’ all over themselves when you arrive safe and sound. I doubt they’re still mad.”

“That’s not it. I miss them but—I just—you sure?”

John stared at him like he was waiting for something, but Arthur didn’t know what. He slung his arm around the boy’s shoulders and led him back to Grace and Belle.


	11. How to Put Others First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the gang begins to grow, both brothers feel like they have something to prove--just to different people. Some things never change though, namely Arthur having to save John not once but twice.

The fading light of a dying campfire and stars so far, far away made for poor company, but bone-weary and limbs heavy with drink left Arthur with little desire to rectify the situation. It was one, perhaps two in the morning—couldn’t be bothered to dig out his pocket watch—and almost everyone was in bed. Except John. He was busy doing a shit job at keeping watch, scrambling to catch the rifle as it slipped from his hands whenever he nearly nodded off. How the brat could possibly be tired when his days were spent goofing off and lazing about was a damned mystery but Arthur had guzzled too much bourbon to try and solve it. Bottle pressed to his lips once more, he frowned when the sweet burn never came and tossed it aside carelessly.

“You’re one sad excuse for a man, Morgan,” he grumbled under his breath, eyeing the couple of new tents set up before him. Drunk? Sure. Inconsiderate? Not yet. Let the lucky bastards sleep.

Change was no friend of his for its winds usually blew south and took Arthur unwillingly along for the ride. A man shaped to endure, to fight back against any opposing force that came their way—it was in his nature to resist. Five had become ten; their little family now a rag-tag gang of scoundrels under a starry-eyed king and his practical advisor. The new faces weren’t the problem. Not really. Rather it was the new level of responsibility placed on him.

“If Hosea is my right hand, you are my left,” Dutch had said after explaining to Arthur where he fit into his dream. He envisioned him as a watchful hawk perched near the top of the chain of command; the one who would swoop in and do what needed to be done to ensure the safety and success of the Van der Linde Gang. Never one to shirk his duties Arthur nodded readily despite the tides of self-doubt rising to dangerous heights, threatening to drown him. He could barely keep his wild little brother under control and away from harm. How the hell was he supposed to protect a large group of people?

Hopeless at masking his feelings, Hosea rubbed his shoulder as Dutch added, “Have faith in me, son. Have faith in my choices. I wouldn’t ask this of anyone else.”

“I won’t let you down.”

Hosea smiled at him. “We know you won’t.”

Arthur lazily poked the smouldering embers. Eight months had passed since then. Each day was spent trying to live up to that promise, trying to show just how much their unwavering trust meant. More precious to him than any bar of gold, Arthur worked twice as hard to keep everyone fed, warm, and above all safe. Most days he woke up early and practically collapsed into his cot at the end of the day. Not tonight though. Not when he really needed it.

Light footsteps drew near. He didn’t need to turn his head to know who it was. “We’ve been over this. You’re not comin’.” Despite the brevity of his words, they still slurred together annoyingly.

John blinked blearily. “How did you—I’ll be good. I swear. Won’t cause trouble or nothing!”

“Y’know whenever you open that—that mouth of yours now—” Arthur snickered. “—Sounds like ya just finished smokin’ a whole carton of cigarettes.”

“Least I don’t sound like some backwater hick.”

Arthur glared, but his lips betrayed him and a lopsided smile tore across his face. John was still John. Still a pest. Still all heart and no brains, so desperate to prove himself even though he didn’t need to. Still skinny as anything too, though he was nearly Arthur’s height now. That was new. “When you get so tall?”

John shrugged then plopped down on the log, deciding Arthur’s shoulder would work as a pillow. Either personal space wasn’t a concept that he was familiar with or it didn’t apply to his brother. “C’mon. Please? Let me help.”

Their latest plan involved robbing a bloated courthouse based on a rumor that a corrupt judge had thousands stashed somewhere inside. Guards patrolling outside at all hours and the sheriff’s office nearby, it could be a whole lot of trouble for nothing. However, Arthur couldn’t bare to temper Dutch’s enthusiasm. Emboldened by a series of successes and the gang growing as he envisioned, he hadn’t been this invigorated since his boys had reconciled.

“Dutch said everyone needs to earn their keep.”

“Dutch says lots of things.”

“He was lookin’ at me when he said it.”

Too tired to argue further, Arthur rested his own head against John’s. If he did tag along—which he would because he was as good at saying no to the boy as he was at saying no to Dutch—that would make this heist the first job in which he led the whole gang. Well, minus the two crafty schemers behind it all.

“Don’t you mind him,” Arthur yawned, blinking in confusion as he found himself being raised. John had slipped an arm around him and was trying to get Arthur to move. “He ain’t gonna kick his favorite son out.”

John just scoffed; attention largely devoted to not falling over. Arthur’s lack of sobriety and weight made the journey to their tent a challenge.

Now on watch, Old Joe’s soft chuckling caught his ears as they stumbled about. After a revenge spree, the bounty-hunter-turned-bounty-holder after eyed the two brothers over his half-moon spectacles before coming to their aid.

Once Arthur had laid down, John stood before his bed with his hands on his hips. “I’m coming whether you like it or not.”

“My, my, we’re off to a great start. Job ain’t even begun and already you’re not listening to me.”

\--

Seven shadows slipped along the Bastrop County Courthouse, its long narrow windows and clock tower loomed above like a jury ready to bring down the full extent of the law upon them. Unseen by the guards who patrolled the grounds; unquestioned by his fellow thieves in the night, a sense of unease rankled Arthur as he easily picked the lock of the back entrance. This was easy. Too easy. Hell, even the sky was on their side; black bandanas, dusters, and gloves rendered useless by thick clouds that ate up the moonlight. Was there a term for knowing something was too good to be true but barging ahead anyways?

Oh yeah.

Stupidity.

Or a lack of faith. Dutch always hated how Arthur was so quick to doubt, so quick to find flaws. Arthur hated it too. To disappoint Dutch was like an anchor strapped to his legs, sinking him deeper and deeper into the murky depths of self-loathing. There was no time for that now. Nagging thoughts brushed aside, he stepped into the sprawling foyer.

“You’d think we was robbin’ a palace,” Mac muttered, scratching his patchy blond beard as he eyed the crystal chandeliers and lavish paintings on the walls. “I know we’re here for the money, but we oughta nick some—”

“One thing at a time,” Arthur cautioned. “Renault and Camille, you two keep watch on the eastern and western halls. Joe, you stay here. Everyone else? With me.”

After a collective curt nod, they separated with Arthur leading Davey, Mac, and John to the southern wing. A maze of countless doors and halls, if they hadn’t of scoped out the place days before they would have had a hell of a time locating the actual courtroom. City folk sure like to make things more complicated than necessary.

“Marston, keep an eye out here and on the sheriff’s office through the windows.”

Ready to object, John squared his shoulders and tried to stare Arthur down. Hoping to appear more grown; hoping to be taken seriously. A lost cause. Hair too long and face too young, hand-me-downs hanging from him like a damned coat rack, if it weren’t for his newly acquired hoarse rasp he would come across as a kid playing dress up.

“I ain’t askin’,” Arthur added, voice gruff with impatience. John opened his mouth, shut it, and then slumped against the wall.

The courtroom was straightforward. A small mercy. Beyond the double doors were rows of wooden pews along an aisle leading towards the bar. There a giant bald eagle statue watched justice unfold from high above. While Davey broke into the judge’s chambers, Arthur and Mac slipped through every row, lifted every rug, and checked all around the judge and jury benches. Nothing.

Bang! Bang!

Arthur whipped out his revolver, only for Davey to give him a sheepish grin with the gavel in his hands. “Sorry, mate. Always wanted to do that.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.” Mac smirked. “Be the only time you’ll be on that side of the bench.”

Davey waved the gavel at his brother. “Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll find ya in contempt of court like the time you punched that clerk.”

“Bastard shouldn’t’ve been smart with me if he weren’t lookin’ to rearrange his nose.”

The brothers cackled while Arthur pinched the brow of his nose. Davey and Mac Callander were two absolute bastards who lived as if an early death was the goal. Closer in age and more similar in personality, they got along far better than Dutch’s boys. They enjoyed violence for violence’s sake and went through alcohol and women as if both were going extinct. But they were straight shooters; bullets and words rang true and Arthur couldn’t help but like them. Whereas others may blow in and out of the gang, fickle as a summer breeze, the Callanders had been with them since Arthur and John returned from their hunting trip.

“Lighten up!” Mac gave Arthur a slap on the back and then pointed at the overflow gallery. “How ‘bout we leave ol’ Johnny boy down here and check up there.”

John poked his head in. “Don’t call me that.”

“You’re supposed to be on watch, not eavesdropping,” Arthur snapped.

“You sure it ain’t in there?” John wandered around the courtroom like a slack-jawed tourist gawking at buildings until Arthur dragged him out. “Christ’s sakes! Let go!”

Ignoring the boy, Arthur placed him back at his post before returning to the foyer with Davey and Mac. They ran up the marble staircase with similar scowls. There were too many doors with fancy plaques, too many halls to get lost in, too many windows where pale moonlight was beginning to shine through. If the money wasn’t in the gallery, they would have to start up a wild goose chase and search every inch of this ridiculous building.

The three stopped walking when the scrape of furniture along the floor echoed throughout the supposedly empty building. Arthur stormed forward and threw open the gallery doors. Down below, John had haphazardly stacked a bunch of chairs on top of the judge’s bench to get to the eagle statue.

Arthur yanked his bandana down. “Marston! Get on down from there!”

It was John’s turn to ignore him. Makeshift tower shaking beneath him as he climbed up, Arthur would have jumped off the balcony to rescue the fool if he could do so without breaking his neck—which John was definitely about to do. He leaned forward and the chairs swayed dangerously as he reached behind the statue.

“Would ya looky here!” He pulled out several stacks of bills and waved them triumphantly.

Of course John would find the stash.

Of course.

The Callanders hooted with laughter at Arthur’s stunned expression and he began to regret bringing them over the Beaumonts. The latter spoke in broken English, but at least they were quiet. Nevertheless, Arthur was grateful. The kid had saved them from searching the whole building in vain. Dutch’s heart was liable to burst upon hearing about his Golden Boy’s cleverness.

Mac called out, “Maybe ya ain’t so useless after all!”

Davey whistled, a hint of deviltry in his light eyes. “Reckon there’s already a thousand on the floor. Calls for a celebration, don’t it?”

“Can I come this time?” John asked.

“A saloon ain’t no place for a wee lass.”

“What—scared you’ll drink too much like ya always do and start flirting with me?”

Whenever John got nervous or offended, the sass came out in full force like a coat of armor. As the baby of the gang and so easy to rile up, this was a daily occurrence.

Mac laughed in his brother’s disgruntled face. “Aw, don’t get mad. Kid’s just grumpy ‘cause it’s past his bedtime. Ol’ Dutch will be waiting to tuck him in when we get back.”

“You both can go to hell,” John grumbled, turning his back to them.

As he stretched forward the stack of chairs came along with him. Arthur had already bolted from the gallery when the furniture smashed into the floor, shattering the silence with a crash that bounced painfully along the walls. A horrid chorus of piercing whistles ensued, overriding the sounds of three sets of boots pounding the wooden floor. Windows flickered by as he tore back through the halls; scarcely noticing the darkened figures streaming out of the sheriff’s office.

“Bring everyone to the courtroom!” Arthur yelled over his shoulder before re-entering the courtroom.

John’s legs kicked wildly as he struggled to hold onto the eagle’s curved wings. The job was entirely forgotten as he ran down the aisle and hoisted himself up onto the judge’s bench. Arthur had to stretch to reach him, but he managed to grasp onto his ankles. “Easy, now. I gotcha.”

Hands pressed against the stone wings for balance, John stared down at Arthur as he was lowered. The fool was shaking and apologizing over and over like he did when he was younger and had to be rescued from a too-tall tree. How many times in his life was he going to have to save John Marston—and from himself no less?

“Just one disaster after another with you, ain’t it?” Arthur sneered once his hands clasped onto John’s narrow waist. “Should’ve let you break your worthless neck.”

His dark eyes went to the window, widening briefly at the swarm of armed guards, but then flashed with self-righteous fury. “If you wouldn’t have ignored me, I wouldn’t have had to get the money by myself!”

Rather than give into desire and throttle the ungrateful bastard, Arthur jumped down as the others ran into the room. Heavy footsteps storming the halls kept his heart rate up. While John and Camille shoved the money into a burlap sack, the others stacked pews to bar the doors. Renault’s wide-brimmed blue hat was knocked clean off his bald head as gunfire blasted through the wood. The Callanders and Joe pulled out their shotguns, keeping the lawmen at bay as they tried to ram their way in. All of the windows were sealed, so Arthur flung two of the juror’s chairs through the glass and they shattered into thousands of jagged pieces.

Bullets spat in every direction. Arthur and John brought up the rear, firing at the guards and deputies. He shot to kill, aiming for faces to make certain none could rise again. Camille tossed the sack to her much taller husband and Renault darted ahead, easily evading their assailants. Grass bled into the dirt roads and plumes of dust swept up as they splintered out. Darkened houses sprang to life; occupants likely awoken by what sounded like hundreds of fireworks in their streets. For once, Arthur was happy to be in a city, zig-zagging through the alleyways that snaked behind shops and homes. Side-by-side with John. This is how it always was with them. Together. Ready to strike. Ready to protect. Not ready to die.

Only once the yells of enraged lawman faded with distance did the two sneak down to the Colorado River where Grace and Belle were waiting. As Arthur’s heart slowly returned to its normal pace, the outrage from before returned and hit him a slap across the face. “Your fool ass could’ve gotten us all killed. You better hope everyone else is alive.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Marston. Guess that ain’t hard though— Arthur eased himself into his saddle, muscles growing sore with fatigue. “—When you’re not worth much in the first place.”

John rode off in the opposite direction.

\--

“Planning to sit there and sulk all night, Arthur?”

He flicked the ashes of his cigarette aside and frowned at Hosea. “I don’t sulk.”

The older man grinned at him but managed to repress his laughter as he eased himself down onto the grass. Around them was a lively scene. The Beaumonts were trying to teach Miss Grimshaw an upbeat French song to the tune of a harmonica while the Callanders were regaling Joe with sordid stories over a game of poker.

Although they hadn’t been able to steal all of the money, two thousand dollars was two thousand dollars and spirits were still high two weeks later. Dutch had spoiled everyone with bigger cuts. The Beaumonts had plans for a long overdue honeymoon. Joe replaced the wooden marker by his son’s grave with one made of stone. Davey and Mac had both managed to somehow blow through their earnings already. Arthur had stashed his money away, not sure what to spend it on and frankly uncertain whether he deserved to do so. Sure, everyone had escaped unscathed and technically the job was a success, but it didn’t feel like one. Dutch was less than thrilled by the news of the shootout and being forced to relocate camp after just arriving.

“Why didn’t you take out the guard quietly? Firing your gun and alerting everyone in the vicinity—that’s a mistake fools make.” Dutch paused to light his cigar. “You need to do better, Arthur.”

“I know,” he had mumbled, unable to meet his mentor’s eyes.

Dutch hadn’t spoke much to him since then and Arthur somewhat regretted covering for John. The boy simply looked mortified during the conversation and never gave him so much as a thank you afterwards.

When Davey whooped and pulled a large pile of chips towards him, Arthur looked up. Dutch was explaining a passage from Evelyn Miller’s latest, now trapped in John’s hands. Bit of a surprise to see him. Gone before Arthur woke up, missing when he got back, heaven knows what the brat was getting up to.

Hosea was watching him and Arthur grunted. The man was being unusually silent to force him to speak. It always worked. “Can I do anythin’ for you?”

“You could help me with something we have in the works. Likely it’ll involve some acting though. Your favorite.” Arthur grabbed a bottle of beer in response. “But I’ll settle for you forgiving John. You two aren’t exactly subtle when you’re having a secret quarrel.”

He puffed away at his cigarette. “What’s the job?”

“Arthur,” Hosea said, voice suddenly stern but was soon distracted by Dutch and John’s approach.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Dutch sat next to Hosea while John remained standing, shifting his weight on his feet and fiddling with the book in his hands.

“Bit heavy for a bedtime story,” Arthur smirked, tilting his bottle back and not daring to look over at Hosea. He could feel the heat of his glare upon the side of his face as John stormed off to bed.

“You could do with reading some more of Mr. Miller, Arthur. He’s truly a visionary.”

There wasn’t any bite in Dutch’s voice nor mirth in his eyes. Had he been forgiven?

“Y’know all his fancy words go over my head.” Dutch conceded the point with a brief nod of his head. “Hosea mentioned you got somethin’ in the works?”

“Not exactly. There’s this navy veteran I met who’s unable to navigate the loan shark infested waters he finds himself in. He’s a good man though, I can tell, but I’m still working out how to rescue him. I’ll keep you both posted.” Dutch smiled warmly at him and Arthur felt worlds better than he had in weeks. “You know, I’ve been meaning to commend you for how much you’ve been contributing to camp lately.”

His face scrunched up. Was Dutch being sarcastic? His contributions hadn’t changed. Arthur quickly smoothed his face with a tiny smile, not wanting to call the man a liar. Hosea caught the confusion though and quirked an eyebrow.

Later when Arthur was laying in his cot, unable to sleep yet again, his head rolled to the side. John was sprawled out like a monkey with half his blankets on the ground. He sat up, rubbed his face, and then snuck out to look at the ledger. Someone had copied his handwriting and had been contributing under his name. No wonder Dutch had forgiven him so easily. Money always smoothed over any wrinkle in the fabric that held their relationship together.

“Damn it, kid.”

\--

Having failed to intercept John, who magically had all his chores done by dawn and had vanished already, Arthur set out with Davey and Mac to sniff out leads down in Austin. When the gang first arrived in the spring and the Texan countryside was awash in bounds of bluebonnets, Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if this was God’s own country and all the others were pretenders. His opinion had yet to change. There was something about the way the hills rolled and how the rocky terrain seemed carved out of the earth. The dry air. The openness. It set his soul right. Somehow this land held the power to make the Callanders’ inability to shut up somewhat tolerable.

“…then all of a sudden this bloke comes in and asks me just what the fuck I think I’m doin’ and I says to him, “by the looks of it, your wife,” and—” Mac broke off, laughing alongside Arthur. “—turned out that was the wrong answer!”

Still snickering, Arthur leaned forward to pet Grace’s neck. “How the hell did you get outta that one?”

“Chucked myself out the window before her husband could fill my sorry arse with lead and stole the first nag I came across. Too bad he didn’t have a saddle and I was stark naked save for my gun belt.”

“Sounds like a form of bareback ridin’ I never want to try.”

The two erupted into laughter and Davey tossed out, “Didn’t know you were capable of makin’ jokes.”

“With you two around, it ain’t exactly hard.”

“Morgan, hold up.” Mac brought his dark bay gelding to a halt, squinting down the valley towards a winding dirt road. “Ain’t that Johnny boy down by that stagecoach there?”

Arthur whipped out his binoculars. Face concealed by his bandana, John had descended from Belle with a gun in either hand, moving towards the two guards riding alongside with false confidence; steps hesitant with clear inexperience. Worse yet, he failed to notice one of the occupants inside the coach had slipped out and was creeping around the back with a pistol. The binoculars fell to the dirt as Arthur grabbed his rifle and shot the sneaky passenger, springing Grace into action as all hell broke loose.

The two guards jumped off their horses, running for John, but abandoned that plan with the three men on horseback bounding towards them. The remaining occupant, some elderly woman in lavish clothing, ran out into the field yelling for help.

John rolled under the vehicle to avoid gunfire and the coachman yelled, “C’mere, you little bastard!”

The two white shire horses were screaming, kicking their legs in the air as bullets whizzed past them as the Callander brothers fired shot after shot at the guards. In the distance, a number of riders appeared from the south. Tin badges glinting mockingly in the sun. Six, eight—Christ! Too many.

When John popped up on the other side, the two fired simultaneously. The coachman fell from his seat, body twisting in pain as he bled from his side. John gave a sharp cry of pain that cut through Arthur with the force of a bullet. Sawed-off shotgun in hand, Arthur leaped off Grace and dashed forward.

“Arthur?” John gasped.

His split second distraction was enough for the coachman to jump up and wrap an arm around his chest. He pressed his pistol to John’s right temple. “Got friends, you little shit?”

John being John, he wouldn’t keep still. He swore the whole while as he tried to elbow his way free. The coachman’s fingers dug into the wound, causing it to gush freely and making the boy writhe in agony. Arthur being Arthur could only stand about three seconds of that before he took the bastard’s head clean off. Blood and shards of bone splattered all over John. He collapsed instantly, hitting the ground hard and clutching his skull that was likely ringing from the blast.

Although the guards were dead, the shootout was far from over. The lawmen were about to descend over the ridge with all the devastation of a tidal wave. Death was certain if they all fled, but if he stayed and bought them time maybe the others could escape. Mac helped Davey, who was bleeding profusely from his thigh, onto his Turkoman before jumping on his own as the lawmen began firing. Arthur grabbed John by the scruff of his shirt and tossed him onto Grace.

“If you come back, I will put a bullet in you myself.”

“Arthur, no! Don’t—”

He slapped the mare’s behind and she took off with a bolt. Belle followed closely behind. As they fled, the Callanders tossed anxious glances back at Arthur who was hoisting himself on top of the wagon. With a snap of the reins, the shires took off. His guns remained holstered. No point in wasting bullets. The group of lawmen split, half choosing to pursue Arthur. As they surrounded him, he couldn’t help but crack a smile as the other three disappeared from his line of vision despite knowing he was headed nowhere but the noose—unless they shot him first, of course.


	12. How to Fight Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facing the noose, John comes to Arthur's rescue and later the gang helps Pearson escape his own problems before fleeing north. Unfortunately, trouble follows where ever they go.

A man can only stare out from behind iron bars for so long before the noose becomes a welcomed escape. Around him were mementos of past sinners. Tally marks counting the days etched into the floorboards. The irrepressible reek of urine from drunks tossed in to sober up. Bloodstains from those who got smart with the deputies. A soiled mattress, misshapen by heavy use lay on the floor. Was the worst jail cell he had ever been in? Perhaps. Once you’ve been inside enough of them, they start to blend together.

Stomach growling and bored beyond comprehension, Arthur curled his knees towards his chest as a draft swept past. A better man would take this time to reflect upon his wrongdoings. Instead he was consumed by what ifs. What would happen to the gang if he died upon the scaffold? What would life be like if he had chosen Mary instead? What would happen to Eliza and Isaac? No one. Not even Dutch and Hosea knew about them. Due to hang in two days, if they didn’t find and rescue him—the Rangers brought him not to Austin but some wayward town further north—his son would grow up believing his father had intentionally abandoned him like the no-good outlaw he was. He buried his face in his hands. In a way, that was true. The lawmen had tried to cut a deal, thinking Arthur valued his life enough to want to save it, but he would sooner put the rope around his own neck than betray Dutch.

“Arthur?”

Grin wolfish from a successful hunt and face outlined in the fiery red of the waning daylight, John stared down at him like some sort of guardian fallen angel. Arthur swore his way over, grasping the boy’s wrist through the bars.

“Marston! Get outta here. If they catch you or the others—”

“It’s just me!” John said as if him being alone was supposed to make Arthur feel better. “Dutch said he’s gonna get you out when they try to hang you but—”

“You must be pretty desperate to feel the rope ‘round your neck again. I’m sure Dutch’ll appreciate having to rescue two idiots instead of one.”

That was the wrong thing to say, of course. Arthur’s fingers curled away as if burned by the heat of John’s glare. It had been five years since the noose had left him scarred inside and out. But he couldn’t help but lash out; the memory of a little waif clawing at his neck with bulging eyes was still too raw.

Unfortunately, nothing lit a fire under John’s ass like doubt.

“Fuck you, Morgan. Dutch ain’t the only one who can come up with plans.”

John set off with Arthur calling after him in vain. He dragged his hands down his face, trying to remember if he was this infuriating at seventeen. Damn those lawmen. If they would’ve just shot him like he deserved John wouldn’t have to risk his life for him—an unfair trade if there ever was one.

Less than ten minutes later there was a shattering of glass in the near distance and shouts for help; something about an all-out brawl at the saloon. Arthur counted one, two, three—damn. Not all four officers ran out the door. Despite being locked up for days, Arthur hadn’t really felt trapped until now. Unable to do anything other than wait he paced around with all the poorly repressed rage of a lion in a cage; ready to tear apart his captors.

Two muffled voices. A scuffling of boots. The thud of a body hitting the floor.

“Marston!” Arthur yelled, grabbing onto the bars. To his relief, John threw open the door and all but flew down the stairs, shining with pure delight despite his bleeding lip and torn shirt—one of Arthur’s old ones.

“I’d ask how you managed to stir up so much shit in so little time but heaven knows that’s your one true talent.” Arthur snatched his hat off the worn mattress. “Got a lock breaker?”

“No, why?” John shot the lock off then carelessly yanked the door open, indifferent to its rattling clang against the wall.

“Because only the deaf wouldn’t be able to hear all that, you idiot.”

“You got a shit way of saying thank you, Morgan.”

Arthur brushed past John, running up the steps two at a time. The gaslights nearly sent him back into the darkness, but he persisted and squinted. Sure enough, John’s sloppiness had drawn nosy citizens to the windows. The smart ones took off down the street screaming for help when they spotted the outlaws.

Wasting no time, Arthur retrieved his Cattleman from the sheriff’s desk and kicked open the front door, sending the stragglers running. Grace and Belle were just across the way, both mares pulling at their tied reins in agitation at the chaotic scene around them. The remaining window burst into thousands of pieces as a man was thrown through. Or perhaps he jumped. The place was on fire. Patrons streamed out, many still fighting.

“There they are! Don’t let them get away!”

Two deputies and several gun-wielding civilians began firing at them as the two jumped into their saddles. They responded in kind and people dove out of harm’s way as they galloped past. Despite the hooves hitting the dirt, the shrieks and screams, the barrage of gunfire, Arthur could still hear John’s laughter as they fled town at a breakneck speed.

\--

“Ow! Damn it, that hurts!” John wasn’t exactly an ideal patient as Arthur redid Hosea’s handiwork along where the coachman’s bullet had sliced across his right bicep.

“It’s your own damn fault you tore your stitches open, so quit whining or I’ll sew your lips together.”

Rather than return to camp and risk bringing along a slew of Texas Rangers, they decided to spend the night concealed under a bridge where rushing water masked their voices. Despite the gruffness of his words, Arthur tried to be extra gentle. The kid was just tired; lids drooping as he carved another chunk out of the piece of wood Arthur had given him as a distraction. What he was trying to whittle was anyone’s guess.

“Robbin’ a stagecoach alone. Christ.” Arthur rolled the stained green sleeve down. Even though John and Davey were going to be alright, the thought of losing them over such stupidity still rankled him. “It’s like you want a bullet right through that empty skull of yours.”

“That’d be nice. Wouldn’t have to hear you go on no more ‘bout how much of a screw up I am or have to put up with everyone treating me like a child.”

“You _are_ a child.”

He threw the wood and knife aside as if both had personally offended him. “And you’re a miserable son of a bitch.”

The brat could go toe-to-toe with a diamondback and win; ain’t no rattlesnake out there with more venom than him. That was the real problem. Too easy to rile up; too much concern placed on what others think. John had always been like this. Anything said or done at his expense left him spitting poison and sullen for days. The dumbest shit used to get a rise out of him. Arthur would spout nonsense like Dutch was going to send him away or bring him back to that orphanage he hated so much. The twelve-year-old would get so upset he wouldn’t eat and Hosea or Miss Grimshaw would give Arthur hell until he apologized. Although the theatrics were lost with age, Arthur preferred them over his response now: trying to prove others wrong no matter the cost.

“And that whole ledger business? Knock that off.”

“Worked, didn’t it?” John’s lip curled. “Dutch ain’t giving you the cold shoulder no more. Weren’t fair of him. I was the one who set the law on us. Course he don’t know that seeing as someone keeps covering for me when they shouldn’t.” He straightened his back. “Why do you do it?”

“How’d you make all that money?” Arthur countered, plucking a much needed bottle of bourbon from his satchel. When John didn’t respond, he extended the bottle as a peace offering.

“Don’t matter.” Arthur retracted his offer and John rolled his eyes. “What? Why do I gotta tell you everything? You don’t tell me shit.”

Hiding beneath his hat, Arthur searched his coat for cigarettes that weren’t there. John had the same accusing stare as Dutch. Both always able to see right through him. What could he possibly want to know? Part of him wanted to spill every last sordid detail until John regretted asking. Maybe he should tell him how he watched his father hang and felt nothing except relief. How easy killing came to him even without Dutch guiding his hands. How he sparked Hosea’s descent back into outlawing by begging him to save Dutch from his self-destructive grief over Annabelle. How he has a son who is beautiful and perfect and far, far, away because his presence would only bring harm. What would get John to stop looking at him like that?

“I can’t even tell if you’re happy I saved you.”

“What, want me to kiss your ass for fixin’ a problem you caused in the first place?”

Childish as ever, John slinked off to his bedroll and buried himself inside without another word. It would take the rest of the bottle and a sketch of the boy beaming down at him from the jail window before Arthur followed suit. Sleep didn’t come easy. As he lay there, moonlight shined through cracks in the bridge and stripes fell across them like iron bars.

“Pickpocketing,” the lump next to him muttered. Dishevelled as ever when he resurfaced, Arthur reached over and tucked what he could of the scraggly strands behind his ear.

Maybe he should tell John how if anything were to happen to him, he would have to cut his own heart out for the pain would be unbearable. Would that satisfy his question? John was a vault. Any secret shared will remain locked away and only Arthur would ever have the key. But he is forever lacking in words, forever unable to speak things he kept so close to himself. As if keeping secrets somehow made them less real.

\--

“Didn’t Miss Grimshaw promise to put a hole in your other leg if you didn’t rest it?” Arthur hitched Grace to a cedar elm, giving the old girl a pat before turning to Davey. Despite how heavily bandaged his thigh was and his inability to put weight on the leg, he was determined to help Dutch fulfill a promise before they fled north. The Callanders and Beaumonts were lined up on horseback along the riverbend, waiting for what Dutch called “the right moment.”

“Aye, that she did.” Davey gave a nod, wiping his brow. “Wouldn’t put it past the old bird, bless her, but Dutch just wants me to hang back and look like the rough bastard that I am. Reckon my leg won’t be seeing much excitement.”

“That’s true.” Mac was unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. “Doubt there’ll even be a shootout.”

Beneath her mess of red curls, Arthur caught a quick eye roll before Camille spoke in that thick Québécois accent of hers, “Haven’t you imbeciles had enough gunfire over the past two weeks?”

“Not with this one here—” Davey gestured vaguely towards Arthur. “—always playin’ the hero.”

“Got ourselves a regular knight-in-shining-armor,” Mac teased with a most punchable grin.

Arthur chose bite over brawn. “Next time I’ll do the world a favor and let ya both get shot.”

That had the Callanders hooting and Arthur sighed as he left. There was an unpleasant dampness where the fabric touched his skin and Arthur was tempted to fall backwards into the tranquil Colorado as he trudged up the slope towards a rundown shack. A sweaty fellow with stringy hair, the beginnings of a beer belly, and a graveyard of stubbed cigarettes by his feet greeted him warmly. Dutch stood by eyeing his pocket watch while John lay sprawled out in the grass, basking in the shade of the shack like some sort of delicate Southern belle. Arthur kicked his boot; a silent order to get up. John kicked him back.

“Mr. Van der Linde, I can’t thank you enough. I didn’t get any replies to my letter so I don’t know if—”

“Oh, they’ll show, Mr. Pearson. They’ll show.” Dutch clapped the man on the back. “The promise of money is like blood in the water for these foul creatures.”

Pearson gave him a smile as shaky as the hand lighting his thirteenth cigarette. Hopefully this whole mess wouldn’t take more than ten minutes. Any longer and the man might have a heart attack. This was a dangerous game. Every lawman had their noses to the ground trying to sniff them out. Joe had the right idea. Not the moving on from the gang part but fleeing the state not long after Arthur’s return party. (He had endured the celebration and the cursed position that was the center of attention purely out of love for his fathers). The sooner they returned to Hosea and Miss Grimshaw to finish packing, the better.

John scrambled to his feet when Dutch approached, sparked by a rumbling of hooves closing in. “Son, I want you to keep your cool even if the gentlemen say or do something disagreeable. Watch and learn.”

He nodded readily, either determined not to fall yet again from Dutch’s good graces or excited by his front-row seat. John would be safer with the others, if Hosea were here, but Dutch likely wanted his hotheaded boy to learn how to coerce through subtlety; intimidate by simply being. In a word, how to be more like him. Violence was a back up plan today; a last resort better left for the workhorse not the protégé.

Three loan sharks came for their prey. Dressed in fine suits and steps sluggish from weariness, a man built like Arthur led the way. A hat so white it became near blinding in the sun and a smirk so snide that even the forever patient Hosea would probably want to lodge his fist into it, Arthur instantly detested the man. What he hated the most was John had his full attention. He leered in the same manner depraved men do when a slap across the face doesn’t deter them in the slightest. Never one to be cowed, John glared right back.

“Gentlemen!” Dutch greeted with an unsettling grin that said everything it needed to: he was in charge and they would only leave if he let them. “Good afternoon to you all. Mr. Bryant, Mr. Tanner, and Mr. Valdez, I presume? My associate and I are grateful for your punctuality.”

“What is this horseshit? Tryin’ to get outta what you owe again, Pearson?” Tanner, the mousy-haired one with a thin scar slashed through his lips sneered before reaching for his pistol. The lanky gentleman to the right with thick black hair and one hell of a mustache grabbed his wrist.

“You are making a big mistake, Cabrón,” Valdez said to Pearson, slowly letting go of his companion.

“We don’t see it that way.” All three drew and Dutch didn’t even blink. “In fact, we’re hoping you three will come to understand how much better it would be for you to write off his debt.”

Bryant threw back his head, barrel chest rumbling with hard laughter. “This degenerate owes us over a thousand dollars! We ain’t writing nothin’ off, you—who the hell are you?”

“Dutch van der Linde,” he replied, grin becoming genuine when the loan sharks exchanged glances. “That’s right, boys. We’re that gang you read all about. Been causing a whole heap of trouble across this fine state of yours.”

Sun circling around the brim of his white hat like an undeserved halo, Bryant kept his head tilted back, but lowered his pistol from Dutch’s face to his heart. “Oughta set the law on y’all right now. Got some fine prices on your heads. It’d certainly make up for the money lost on this slob.”

“You were fools to lend me money in the first place! You knew I could never pay you back.” Pearson tossed his cigarette at the man’s feet, spirit clearly soaring in the shadow of Dutch’s confidence. Maybe he’d fit in with the gang after all.

“We weren’t looking to have anymore nasty articles written about us before we left, but if you like we can make an exception.” Dutch remained still while the loan sharks’ heads swivelled around comically as the hidden gang members rode up along from the sides, armed to the teeth. Arthur drew and John followed suit. “Or you could see things my way.”

Sometimes Dutch could be understated.

Other times he was about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face.

\--

Sometimes when Arthur closed his eyes, he could still feel the impossibly soft blond hair under his hesitant fingers; could still see his own bluish-green mirrored back to him as he held the tiny bundle in his arms. Already the babe had been replaced by a talkative child whose legs only wanted to run and held a boundless curiosity to touch, see, and explore. Eliza was always full of stories of moments and memories missed whenever he darkened her doorstep. They would continue to slip out of his grasp. Arthur was a stranger, not a father.

“No way in hell you’re makin’ that shot, Morgan.”

Reputation and yet another shot of whiskey on the line, Arthur shook his head to clear his thoughts, then made a show of cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders before lining up his cue stick. Cigar smoke, thick as fog, clouded above them and those nearby who sang and danced. Voices fought to be heard and tall tales clamored for supremacy. Damn saloon was too rowdy for his tastes, but John was happy and that made Arthur happy.

He bent his arm back at an awkwardly high angle and proceeded to make the white ball bounce over the striped blue and it knocked the black one right into the hole. “You were sayin’, Marston?”

One would’ve thought some feat of magic had been performed given how hard John’s jaw dropped. Cackling at his victory, Arthur reached for his prize along the edge of the pool table, only for the sore loser to snatch and hold the glass out of his reach.

“Teach me,” John demanded before downing it himself. “I’ll buy you another.”

Arthur crossed his arms over his puffed out chest, glowering down, and missing the days when this form of intimidation actually worked. Look at him. Already lining up three balls, wholly confident his older brother would give into his demands.

“Always gotta have your hand held,” he grumbled, prying the beer bottle from John’s fingers—still nursing his second one like the damned lightweight he was—and replacing it with his cue stick. Arthur then manhandled him into the correct position, pulling John’s arm back and high. “Trick is to get your angle right and bring the stick down hard.”

He brought down John’s arm with a bit too much force. Although the white ball sailed over the solid yellow, knocking the striped red as intended, the cue stick scratched the green velvet. John burst into a fit of hoarse giggles; a sound so strange but infectious that he started up as well. Arthur grabbed the beer bottle and had the brilliant idea to lay it sideways. It covered the mark, but some spilled out and stained the velvet. Shit. John slumped forward, resting his elbows on the pool table, face buried in his hands, laughter only growing worse.

“Shush your mouth! Ain’t nobody gotta know.”

He tried to quiet John by grabbing his mouth but somehow the boy easily evaded him. He instead grasped Arthur’s hand to place some coins in it. “Gotta piss. Get me one too.”

“Bossy son of a bitch tonight, ain’t ya?”

That mischievous smile of his was John’s sole response before he went outside. Arthur waded through the tables packed with well-dressed men trying to out cheat the others at poker, dropping his gaze whenever a working girl and her fluttering lashes passed by. He had to squeeze in to catch a glimpse of the overwhelmed bartender, holding up two fingers rather than holler out over all the other posh idiots clamoring for his attention. He couldn’t imagine dressing up for a night of drinking.

Sometimes Arthur felt like he was born decade late. Sometimes a century late. Cities like this were usually the culprit; a foul reminder of what was being lost and what Arthur could have had if only born a bit earlier. The gang set up camp far enough from Fort Worth to avoid trouble, but close enough that a short ride would plaster it across the horizon and lure them in. Dutch and Hosea had regaled them time and again with stories from this place of lost debauchery; once as rough and wild and free as the cowboys who rode through on route to the cowtowns of Kansas. Now it was just like every other city: too big, too crowded, too much.

After five minutes of standing around with two shots in his hands, Arthur sighed impatiently. What was taking John so long? Maybe he was being paranoid, but John attracted trouble like Arthur attracted bad luck. He threw back both shots and exited through the swinging doors. The cool night air hit him like a smack across the face yet did nothing to sober up his steps. The street rocked back and forth like a ship upon gentle waves but he still managed to circle the building. John was nowhere to be found. His stomach churned as he hurried down a darkened alley where vermin roamed, dragging his fingertips along the rough bricks as a guide. Empty. He ran down another and then another, halting when he finally spotted three figures against a wall.

“We want what we’re owed.”

“Were you both dropped on your heads as kids or just born this stupid?” John sneered, despite the fist in his hair and blood pouring from his nose. A large figure had him pinned to the wall, pressing harder when the boy tried to elbow him. “Get off me! I don’t have your money.”

“No, but we reckon Van der Linde does.” There was a familiar twang in his voice that stopped Arthur’s heart for a moment. “He’ll have no choice but to pay up if he wants his little cocksucker back.”

“Where’s your brother?” Another voice asked. Sounded like Valdez.

“You both can go fuck yourselves—”

“No one taught you manners, boy?” Bryant yanked John’s head back. He was biting his lip, refusing to cry out even when the other hand squeezed him hard between his legs. “Guess we’re going to have to fix that.”

Before Arthur could draw his gun, glass shattered against the back of his head. Skull throbbing, he spun around fist first and whacked the broken bottle out of Tanner’s hand. He dove at Arthur’s chest and sent them both crashing to the dirt. A knife came out, catching slivers of the moonlight. His hand flew up a second late, the knife still sliced his chin twice. It stung like a branding iron searing into his skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John had broken free and was trying to fight off his two attackers, lashing out like a cornered animal—with little thought. Bryant grabbed his arm and punched the boy in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

Arthur had to get to John.

Had to.

Tanner was stronger than he looked, bearing down with all his might until Arthur headbutted him. The blade fell. He rolled Tanner over. Back on his feet, Arthur yanked the man up and slammed his face over and over again into the wall. Each subsequent hit left a little less fight in the bastard; a little more flesh coating the bricks. Only when bone finally crunched under his hands did Arthur relent—but not before Valdez shot at him. The bullet pierced the corpse instead and Arthur fired his own six-shooter; gunshot echoing loudly into the night.

John’s legs flailed helplessly beneath the much larger man who sat on his stomach strangling him. He tugged in vain at the hands wrapped around his neck, voice lost under their pressure. When Arthur fired, Bryant glanced up for a brief moment. A mistake. John found his own fallen knife and rammed it into Bryant’s side. The large man twisted in pain and his anguished yell became a choked gurgle when John thrust the blade deep into his throat.

Already unsteady on his feet, Arthur fell to his knees hard when he ripped the heavy corpse off John. Drenched in blood and nose crooked, he lay there gasping for air and half-dazed. Panting heavily, he ignored the rage coursing through him, the ache beneath his skin, and pulled John into his arms.

His fingers reached up and hovered over Arthur’s bleeding chin, but he folded John’s hand back down and tried to shush his apologizes. “It don’t matter. C’mon. Someone would’ve heard the gunshot.”

\--

They were a sorry looking pair indeed. Chin covered in stitches poorly concealed by his now permanently patchy beard and a large bruise across his forehead, Arthur looked like a vagrant. Although the swelling had subsided, John had two black eyes, finger-shaped purple marks around his neck, and a nasty cut along the bridge of his healing nose. The boy had taken to hiding behind his long hair, neckerchiefs, and floppy hats. He even reverted back to his old ways, only letting Arthur touch him. No one had the heart to tease him.

Pearson was beside himself when he found out who was behind the attack despite both Arthur and John telling him it wasn’t his fault. They did the same with Dutch, who was so furious (mostly with himself) that the normally unflappable man bit off everyone’s head the moment they got too close. Only when Hosea put his foot down and told Dutch to knock it off, did he stop being a terror. Mostly.

The two sat by a creek that ran not too far away from their campsite. Copper was with them, back paw thumping against the ground as Arthur scratched along his neck. John was the only person he knew whose silence could be loud; speaking through the furrowing of his brows, how his nails scraped unknowingly into the soil, the waves of anger tumbling down. Arthur bent low, trying to get John to look at him.

“It ain’t your fault, kid.”

John curled his legs beneath him, facing Arthur but not really looking at him. “Feels like it.”

“It’s not.” Arthur’s hand fell from Copper. “I should’ve gotten there faster. Torn him apart.”

The firmness in his voice did nothing to ease the unwavering sadness. Arthur hated his inability to comfort people, hated that he couldn’t take away whatever was troubling John. His lips kept opening and closing, like there was something he wanted to get out but couldn’t. Arthur bent low, trying to get John to look at him.

“I just hate feelin’ like that, y’know? Helpless.” Arthur nodded in understanding until John added, “Like being back at the orphanage.”

These final words were choked out, like they were jagged and scraped his throat along the way, and twisted Arthur’s heart. He was paralyzed by their weight, by what they left out, and by all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t. A burning behind his eyes grew the longer he stared at the kid, who had crossed his arms and turned away at Arthur’s silence. He didn’t know what to do so he resorted to what he was good at: bossing John around.

“Y’know what?” Arthur placed their hats aside and rolled up his sleeves. “Let me show you somethin’. Lay down.”

John didn’t need to be asked twice. Arthur straddled him before carefully placing his hands on his neck. “Alright?” There was nothing but warmth in his eyes as he nodded. “Right. So. To escape when someone’s chokin’ you on the ground, you gotta roll them off. Keep your left elbow close to your side and grab my right wrist with your right hand.”

He followed his instructions exactly. Meanwhile Copper paced around, wagging his tail, probably trying to figure out what the heck they were up to.

“I can still break free so you gotta trap my arm. With your other hand grab the back of it along the upper part. That’s it.” He tried to pull back but John had too firm a grip. “Now step over my right foot to catch it. Keep your other foot planted. Good. Now without letting go—”

He had already figured it out and lifted his hips, rolling them both to the right. Arthur ended up on his back and John broke free, smiling for the first time in a week though it quickly faltered.

“Don’t know how I’m gonna remember all that.”

“We’ll practice ‘til you can do it in your sleep,” Arthur replied simply. “There’s other stuff I’ll teach you. How to fight better and whatnot.” John sat down and Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder. “Ain’t no one ever gonna do that to you again.”

Over the next few months the two of them would practice whenever they had some spare time. The lessons ended up bridging out: how to disarm, how to hogtie someone, how to escape when pinned to a wall, the best places to hit or stab, how to slash a throat stealthily. John soaked up every piece of knowledge showered upon him as if his life depended on it. In a way it did. The unspoken truth was that Arthur might not always be around. John had to be able to defend himself.

At the same time though, Arthur knew he was training John to be a killer. The boy was already dangerous. Arthur saw the way he stabbed that sick pervert, the way he shot at anyone who tried to hurt his family. No hesitation. No remorse. It unnerved Arthur, which was confusing. Why was he fine, well, mostly fine with killing, but the thought of John doing it always bothered him? He knew he needed to get over it but that part of his brain just didn’t want to click into place. Maybe one day. Until then, the only way Arthur was able to square with what he was doing was by reminding himself that this was a necessity. This was the path John landed on when he was shot down from that sycamore tree. It had to be done.

But then again, how much choice did that starving child ever have?

\--

Whereas Dutch had spoken of loyalty, of how proud he was that Arthur was doing right by Eliza and his family, Hosea had been blunt. Balance was an illusion. A man cannot be both an outlaw and a family man. Told him he can’t always live his life for others. That if he ever made the choice to leave—Arthur had cut him off there. He would never leave. Never. Even though he knew Hosea was right.

The outlaw had won.

John had been full of questions, as always, and he tried to answer them all. They sat together before the fire with the moon high above. Isaac grew before their eyes through the couple of sketches Arthur was willing to show.

“Can I meet him one day?”

Arthur gave a nod. As if he could ever say no.


	13. How to Lie with Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facing a series of changes, a disgruntled Arthur clings to the past. Meanwhile, the curious couple and their idiot sons pull a con that comes back to bite them in the ass.
> 
> We're getting towards the end, so here's a longer than usual chapter. Admittedly, much of this is to set up what I hope will be three nice pay-offs in the final chapter. Enjoy!

How many second chances can a man be afforded before that well runs dry? Another now lay in his hands. A letter from Mary. How apt his fingertips were throbbing along with the beat of his heart. She spoke of mistakes and maybes. Of her regret over the way things fell apart. Of her anger over his inability to be the man she knew he could be. Of her desire to see him again. Already he could hear the dissenting voices, rattling around him like echoes trapped between cavern walls. A smart man would listen, take heed, but instead Arthur plugged his ears and placed the letter in his journal so it wouldn’t crinkle.

Come to the Plaza Hotel, she implored. Arthur always came when called—just ask Dutch—but for once the obedient dog hesitated. What if he disappointed her again? What if she didn’t want him back? The tiny voice of rationality inside—which sounded an awful lot like Hosea—that he liked to drown out with alcohol yelled at him to slow down. He was getting so far ahead of himself that if he glanced back he wouldn’t be able to see the lines of the map anymore. Regret doesn’t mean forgiveness. Missing doesn’t mean wanting. But maybe, just maybe, this could be his second chance. Their second chance.

“You’re a fool. A damned fool,” he muttered under his breath, switching the journal in his lap for another. Like a dream he desperately wanted to remember but became lost upon waking, a life with Mary was fleeting and forever out of grasp. His heart could want the impossible all it liked, but it wouldn’t change that fact that she was something he could never have nor deserved.

This journal was much older and almost complete. He carefully flipped towards the back where two sketches remained incomplete. A feral boy, small and scrappy, with scraggly black hair and a mischievous smile on one page. A handsome young man on the other, whose dark features gave him a wolfish look, with yearning eyes that had seen too much pain but still hadn’t lost their spark. For some reason, the elder was the harder to draw, as if the memory was sharper than reality. Arthur chocked it up to a rare bout of perfectionism; a desire to show they were one in the same and how that little devil child hadn’t really gone anywhere so much as blossomed.

“Mr. Morgan!” Miss Grimshaw came over with a slice of the chocolate cake she had purchased in town. “Quit hiding beneath that tree and come join the celebration.”

Arthur snapped the journal shut. “Y’know I ain’t much for parties, Susan.”

She held the plate _just_ out of his grasp. “Make an effort! John is only going to turn eighteen once in his life.”

Their eyes trailed over to the birthday boy who sat in the middle of his presents, tearing open yet another gift with the same gusto a young child would. Forever a sponge for attention and still at an age where birthdays weren’t depressing, John was all smiles. The gang stood (or swayed, depending on their sobriety) around watching in amusement as he held up a new gun belt from the Callanders and cackled with delight.

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Miss Grimshaw cuffed him upside the head and dragged Arthur over by the arm.

“It’s perfect.” John quickly slung the belt low around his hips and crossed his arms. A couple of knowing eyes drifted towards Arthur and he pulled his hat down considerably, though it did nothing to quell the burn in his cheeks.

“We figured bein’ eighteen and all that Hosea might finally cut the umbilical cord and let ya do more than just keep watch,” Mac grinned, raising his beer bottle to the mildly amused older man.

“‘Umbilical’ is a big word for you. I’m surprised you even know it.”

Mac pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Mr. Matthews. I am a cultured man!”

Davey laughed the hardest at that. “That so? How much culture does one pick up on the bottom of a saloon floor?”

“Well, you’re the bloody expert. You tell me!”

While their argument continued, John came strutting over with more swagger than any eighteen year old had any right to. Distracted, he didn’t notice how Pearson and Miss Grimshaw utilized the Callanders’ height, moving them to block his view of the tent area where his big present was being set up.

“Congratulations,” Arthur said around a mouthful of cake.

“For what?”

“When I first saw ya, I said, ‘That dumbass is gonna be dead in a year.’ Now look at you.” Arthur stabbed his fork into the cake. “Shows what I know.”

“Some idiot has been rescuing me all these years. Blame him.”

There was an expectant look in his eye, almost hopeful. What did the brat want? He wasn’t the sort to demand a present. Living on the streets will do that. No matter how many birthdays were shared in the presence of loved ones, gifts were always a surprise, not an expectation.

“It ain’t ready yet, boy.” He took another bite, rolling his eyes at John’s blank stare. “Your gift. That’s what you’re here for, right?”

There was a long bout of silence before John muttered, “Remind me to be an ass on your birthday.”

Guilt soured the taste in his mouth. Arthur didn’t even understand why he was in such a foul mood. It had been building over the past week like a reluctant illness, eating away silently at him. Arthur knew the sear of envy well, the way it burned under your skin like a fever and this wasn’t it. What the hell was wrong with him?

“John!” Dutch called out. “Come over here!”

Any disgruntlement was swept away by excitement as John hurried over. Curiosity piqued, he followed. A brand-new black tent had been set up, standing proudly among the others with John’s cot and items already inside. Copper was wagging his tail, sniffing around the base. Likely thrilled at having a yet another place to hide inside when he got in trouble for stealing food from Pearson’s worktable. The brothers stood there stunned for a moment. Arthur’s complaints about having to share his tent had died off years ago, believing that this is just how things were going to be from now on. After six years, he was finally going to get his space back. While John’s mouth was too busy hanging open uselessly, Arthur couldn’t help but fill the silence.

“Why Dutch, I’m touched. Just what I always wanted.”

He pulled the cigar from his upturned lips and gestured towards the tent. “Hosea and I figured it was high-time you two had your own. Grown men need their privacy.”

“Marston? Grown? Pretty liberal use of that word if ya ask me.”

John made sure to shove him on his way over to thank Dutch and Hosea.

\--

“So what exactly are we doing again?”

Four horsemen shot eastward out of the thick forest, galloping away from the mountains into a bone-dry plain that was as vast as the impossibly blue sky above. If one squinted past the swirling clouds dancing over the sun, they would spy a con on the horizon. Something to do with “green goods.” Whatever that meant. Hosea and Dutch had explained it in bits and pieces but having spent the night tossing and turning like a slab of meat on a spit, Arthur was of no mind for puzzles.

“Arthur, it’s so simple. Surely even you can understand,” Dutch laughed. “Hosea will spread news about genuine counterfeit money for sale. Whomever he convinces will met with him and I’ll show them a briefcase full of real money, pretending it’s fake. While we’re negotiating a price, John will switch the briefcase with one full of sawdust.

Hosea carried on. “When the ruse is eventually discovered, he won’t be able to report us because attempting to buy counterfeit currency is a crime in itself.”

“He’ll be miles up shit creek without a paddle in sight!” Dutch threw his head back and laughed. “A stroke of genius, old man.”

“Well, I can’t take the credit. Bit of a classic, really, but a reliable one.” Hosea gave Arthur a teasing smile. “We know you hate the spotlight so you’ll have more of a background role. Unseen with me, but you’ll be overseeing the transaction with Dutch.”

A bodyguard? That he could do. “Where is Marston gonna hide?”

“I plan to rent a hotel room and will set up a curtain to conceal him,” Dutch replied. “That sound good, John? John?”

“Huh?” John replied intelligently, drooping head snapping up. “I—I mean, yes that sounds fine but, uh, what if he checks the briefcase right away?”

“Why would he? After all, in his mind he will think he’s just seen the inside of it.”

“He still might,” John countered. “Is it even safe for us to hit this city? All three of you got some bounty posters plastered on the walls outside the sheriff’s office thanks to the dust we kicked up in Texas.”

“You’ve been hanging around Arthur too much.” Dutch snapped. Eyes full of fire and lips growing thin, he was doing a poor job at concealing his irritation.

The problem was that he was staring at his reflection.

For the most part, John was what they had raised him to be. Fiery. Opinionated. A troublemaker who yearned for something more, something better. Life can be better, Hosea had taught them, and John had taken it to heart. They had never tempered his penchant for questions, for daydreaming, for running off and getting up to mischief. Was it any wonder that John would see things differently when he was given the space to do so? Yet when John had a differing opinion or poked holes into plans, Dutch always seemed annoyed. It’s like he wanted his protégé to be both like and unlike him. Maybe this was just another one of those things that was beyond Arthur’s capability to comprehend.

“Have some faith, John! I have a good feeling about this one. It’s been a while since we did something together like this. Just us four.” Dutch smirked. “A family that swindles together, stays together.”

“The old guard and the tag-along.”

“Shut up, Arthur.”

“Now, now, boys.” Hosea chided, looking at the two of them with fond exasperation. “It’d be nice to be able to stop calling you both that but I suppose that is a lot to ask.”

Dutch gave an overdramatic sigh. “And to think, we were hoping to bring another young child into the family.”

“Why don’t we get ourselves a girl this time?” Hosea asked. “Mix things up.”

“That is an excellent idea! We could raise her up into a fine woman and utilize her feminine wiles to our advantage.”

Their bouncing back and forth came to abrupt halt as the fathers burst into laughter at the mutual horror shared by their sons. Arthur swore he could feel his hair turning gray at the sheer thought of Dutch and Hosea adding a daughter to their family. They’d spoil her worse than Marston! Good thing they were joking. At least he hoped so. After all, they did rescue two street urchins on a whim.

The twinkle in their eyes lasted until they rode into Las Vegas. Once described by Dutch as a “baston of freedom,” it became quickly apparent this was no longer so. Ten years had passed since the dirt of New Mexico Territory last graced his boots and Arthur swore he could feel every one of them. Las Vegas had always been a city divided. the Rio Gallinas cut right through and split the west and the east, the old and the new, but now it seemed the latter had won. Adobe buildings and a low skyline gave way to hustle and bustle. The colorful houses and expensive shops had swelled over the decade. No wonder the Gillis family had deemed it fit to visit. That should’ve been Arthur’s first clue the place had gone to hell. The calendar might say 1891 but Arthur could feel the twentieth century nipping at his heels.

“Progress,” Arthur joked, noticing Dutch’s crestfallen expression.

“A step back,” he corrected. “Back to the rot of the Old World.” Dutch got down from Duke, his new black Arabian. Admiral had passed two months back. “John, you join Arthur so you can watch Hosea in action. Come over to the Plaza Hotel afterwards and ask for Aiden O’Malley’s room.”

Arthur’s body seized up in horror. “Wait, which hotel?”

\--

“I’m telling you!” Hosea had a small crowd of men captivated at the back of a smoky bar, each of them examining real money out of his pocket. Some gauged the thickness while others held it up to a light. “Not even the Treasurer of these fine United States could tell the difference between O’Malley’s counterfeit cash and the genuine article.”

Never was Hosea more in his element than mid-performance, when his audience hung onto his every word no matter how false they were. If being a stage actor paid better, Arthur wondered if he would have remained in show business. Would he have been satisfied simply bringing fictional tales to life? Or would the allure of using the power of story to convince others of whatever he needed them to believe be too strong to resist? After all, the conman was in charge of his own narrative.

Arthur contemplated this behind a thick wall of smoke and clustered bodies, sitting next to an oddly quiet John. Fists pressing into his cheeks, elbows on the table, he and his two brain cells looked deep in thought. Too busy worrying about Mary possibly spotting him at the hotel, Arthur chose not to pry. Not only might their cover be blown, but if she saw him up to no good he could kiss any chance of reconciliation goodbye.

“So,” John began, dragging out the word needlessly. “What’s wrong with the Plaza Hotel?”

“Nothin’. Shut up and watch Hosea like you’re supposed to.”

His hands fell to the table. “I don’t know what Dutch is thinking. You and I both know I’ll never be able to scam like that. I’m no good at acting and a shit liar.”

Arthur ran a tired hand over his face. He was fairly certain he uttered those exact words at some point whenever Dutch implored him to embrace acting and take a lead role in a con.

“You’re a shit liar too,” John added. “I know something’s up with that hotel—oh no, look.”

Some suspicious heckler, an Irishman by the sounds of it, had gotten in Hosea’s face. Ever unflappable, the conman spoke calmly and held up a ten dollar bill, “I can assure you, my good man, these bills have fooled shopkeepers and financiers from here to New York.”

“You callin’ me a liar?”

“Not so much a liar so much as misinformed, but please, go ahead and point out a flaw if you can find one. O’Malley and I are always looking to improve our craft.”

Difficult to tell what was shorter: the man’s temper or his height. He glared up at Hosea with his anger coming out in the form of a twitching scowl and fidgeting hands unable to fix his loose green necktie. The stamp of the southwestern sun lay upon him, blond hair whitened and pale skin burned. A peculiar looking fellow.

“Well, I can’t see anythin’ wrong but me eyes aren’t what they used to be. But you’re full of shite, old man! No fake bills are _that_ good!”

Arthur cupped his mouth and muffled his voice, “Spend that bill and prove it!” He immediately ducked down and pretended to adjust his stirrups, hat shielding him from all the stares that flashed their way.

The Irishman mistakenly pointed at John. “Yeah! Do what the kid said!”

“Lead the way, sir.” Hosea swept his arm towards the door gallantly. “You can even pick the store.”

“Alright, that was pretty clever,” John whispered.

After Arthur batted away the compliment and the two parted ways, he kept a distant but watchful eye on Hosea. Naturally the coffee percolator the Irishman had picked out was bought without issue. The fool immediately ran off in search of cash, a skip in his step from dreams of dollar signs. As Hosea went to return his purchase, Arthur went over to the Plaza Hotel.

A long, red-brick building with rows upon rows of narrow windows topped with different arches, Arthur was out of place even before he stepped into the lavish foyer. Dutch was sitting with a distraught blonde, dabbing a cut beneath her rapidly purpling eye with his handkerchief. Almost every part of the young woman seemed deflated, her curvaceous body sat limply in the plush chair. Even the ringlets of her hair were wilted. The only spark of life came from her eyes. Green and glistening like morning dew in a lush field, she gazed up at Dutch like he was the answer to her problems. Probably the first person in a long, long while to show her any kindness. Rather than intrude, Arthur had a quiet word with the proprietor and went up to O’Malley’s room.

Lots of maroons and deep blues greeted him; the curtain strung up to conceal the entrance to the balcony doors reminded him of the night sky. Gold lining decorated much of the furniture and there was a huge bed that Arthur had to use all his resolve to resist flopping down onto. John had no self-control however, sprawled out across it like a starfish lazing about on a rock. He grabbed a pillow and whipped it at John’s face. The bastard simply tucked it behind his head.

“I saw Mary.” He turned onto his side and quickly raised a hand to settle Arthur’s impending outburst. “Don’t worry, I told her you sent me here to let her know you were busy doing stuff for camp but that you’d meet her near Ward and Tamme’s in an hour.”

“You—she—she believed you?”

“Think so. Mary said thank you and left after that.”

Arthur stared at John, trying to figure out his game. His feelings towards Mary weren’t exactly a mystery. Unable to see any fault in his older brother—as baffling as that was—he never spared a kind thought for her, let alone word. He hadn’t forgiven her for breaking Arthur’s heart, angry as if he was the wronged party.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a shit liar?”

John shrugged sheepishly just as the sound of boots and male voices carried up the stairs. He scrambled off the bed and vanished behind the curtain. Dutch re-entered the room alongside the skeptical Irishman.

“Y’know O’Malley, I can’t see a drop of Irish blood in ya. That your real name?”

“Of course it is! As tough as it was to leave Galway, my grandfather brought his family to these shores so they could escape the famine and prosper. The accent regrettably got lost through the generations.”

He nodded at Arthur, who reminded stone-faced despite the attention. “Who’s this bloke?”

“Oh, don’t mind him.” Dutch pulled out the briefcase and showed off the goods inside. “He’s just here to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

Naturally, the Irishman had no qualms about the very real stacks of cash, courtesy of a recent bank robbery, inside the briefcase. The moment he placed it down, Arthur kept his eyes glued to the man. In his peripheral vision John’s hands snaked out from behind the curtain and quickly made the switch. The instant the man handed just over a thousand on what he thought was two grand in fake currency, Dutch had his arm around the Irishman like they were the best of friends and ushered him out the door.

“That might have been the easiest money we’ve ever made, boys!” Dutch came back in and locked the door, before he began to dole out Arthur and John’s cuts. “Now we just have to find Hosea and—”

“You son of a bitch!” A fist pounded against the door so hard that Arthur was certain the hinges would shatter. The hotel proprietor yelled at him to stop but his outrage died the moment the irate victim began firing his pistol, blasting holes through the door.

“Guess he checked after all,” John grumbled as the three dashed out to the balcony.

“Is now really the time to gloat, John?” Dutch snapped.

They swung over the ledge and began to climb down right into their horses’ saddles. The sad-eyed blonde from before had her nose pressed to the window, expression somewhere between shock and amusement. She ducked as a bullet sailed over her head, shattering the glass as the Irishman came shooting down the stairs. Each went off in separate directions with Arthur slipping off deeper into town in search of the opera house. Somehow the closer he got, the faster his heart pounded. Apparently facing Mary was scarier than a loaded gun.

\--

Her name was Karen Jones and Arthur was not at all surprised when the blonde rode into camp. Determined to join the gang after witnessing what went down at the Plaza Hotel, she spent four days trying to track them down. To everyone’s surprise, including hers, Dutch welcomed Karen with literal open arms. He wasn’t wrong to do so, between her deadly aim and flair for distraction, she fit into the gang like a hand in a well-worn glove. Karen possessed an eagerness to prove herself that all new Van der Lindes had and readily volunteered to help with any job that arose regardless of how dangerous.

“I can’t tell if an early grave is your goal or you just have a lot of energy ‘cause you’re young.”

“I suppose it’s the first one since I don’t feel that young.” Karen snorted. “Now quit needling me, Arthur, and let’s go hit that coach!”

In actuality, she was about John’s age but life had hardened her and Karen seemed a lot older than she was. Certainly older than Marston who was still seen as the baby of the gang, much to his annoyance. Still, she had an irrepressible thirst for fun and as such got along with everyone, especially the Callanders who in her found a drinking and flirting partner. Everyone except Miss Grimshaw. Karen bristled when told that she would have to help with mending clothes.

“I ain’t sewing nothing! I didn’t join this gang to be anyone’s wife.”

“No, but if you want to stay in this gang, Miss Jones, you’ll shut your mouth and do as you’re told!”

Not willing to go back to her old life, Karen plopped down next to him by the campfire and did just that—though she scowled her way through every stitch and shot Miss Grimshaw dirty looks whenever the older woman’s back was turned. Her mood instantly improved though when Arthur passed her a beer. The two of them sat quietly, Arthur continuing to work on his sketches of John while Karen sewed and hummed a song. His eyes occasionally drifted over to his companion, who somehow managed to not stab herself with the needle in the low light. He tried to picture Mary’s face over hers but he couldn’t. Maybe his imagination wasn’t strong enough. More likely he was trying to see something that would never be.

“Got something on my nose, Arthur?”

“Huh? Uh. No. Sorry, Miss Jones. Just lost in thought, is all.”

“Call me Karen, would ya! You make me sound like some prissy high society lady.” She giggled and took another sip of beer. “What are you brooding about?”

“I don’t brood.” Karen snorted and did an impression of Arthur’s grumpy face. “And I don’t look like that either. I was just thinking ‘bout how some women fit so easily into this life while others don’t.”

“Suppose it’s what you’re used to,” Karen replied after some thought. “Goes both ways. I mean, could you see yourself living any other life but this one?”

It was amazing how women can slap a man across the face without even raising their hand. Not wanting to divulge the truth, Arthur shrugged. As the years fell away the possibility of living a normal life slipped further and further out of his grasp. Maybe others could do it. Maybe someone like John. Not Arthur though. For Christ sake’s, he had a child and still hadn’t left outlawing behind. For him to expect Mary to sacrifice her life for him just because he didn’t have the courage to strike out on his own was horribly selfish.

Angry with himself, Arthur quickly bid Karen goodnight and went off to collapse in his cot. May as well of just stayed with her though considering once again he found himself tossing and turning for hours. Sometime after midnight however, when the camp had grown quiet, footsteps padded towards his tent and Arthur sat up as the flap was thrown open. John marched inside; dark circles apparent even in the thin ray of moonlight that outlined his thin frame. Copper perked up.

“Move over.”

Clearly, John had been suffering from the same problem as him. Arthur knew fully well their sleeping issues over the past two weeks were due to the separation. It was too quiet, too strange not having the other in the opposite cot. Like an addict desperate for his fix, every inch of his body that yearned for sleep begged him to give in.

“Get out,” he growled, flopping back down.

“I had a nightmare.”

“The hell you did. Get out.”

“Alright, I didn’t but I know you ain’t been sleeping either.” John pulled down the blanket. “Quit being difficult.”

“Got a lot of nerve comin’ in here like you own the damn place.” After smacking the grabby hands away, Arthur shot the brat a venomous glare as he tried to slip in despite the lack of room. “We’re gettin’ too big for this shit.”

His triumphant, toothy smile was the brightest thing in the tent as he lay down next to Arthur. Too bad the brat wasn’t tiny anymore and couldn’t just be tucked in along Arthur’s side. The two managed to fit just barely. Although Arthur bitched and moaned, it was nice to have the extra body heat on a cold spring night like this. Better yet, John’s soft breathing was already lulling him to sleep.

“What’d Mary want?”

“Go to sleep, Marston,” Arthur growled, before sighing through his nose. Were other brothers this irritating? John would ensure sleep remained elusive so long as his questions remained unanswered. “Mrs. Gillis passed away and Mary was looking for a friend to cheer her up.”

“Oh, that’s—that’s too bad.” John fell quiet for a bit, before he turned to face Arthur. “That all she want?”

Nosy bastard.

Things had started off alright, minus the news about her mother. Mary was as beautiful as ever. He mostly asked her questions and kept quiet about himself. The problem came when she brought up her rotten bastard of a father. The reprobate had been making poor choices, namely running up huge gambling debts with men who had come to collect. Naturally, she wanted Arthur to make that bad business go away. He would help as best he could, of course, but deep down it hurt a bit to know Mary wouldn’t have contacted him if she didn’t need something.

The silence gave John his answer. “For your birthday, I’ll get you some bowstrings. Yours are gonna snap with how hard she’s playing you. Reckon it’s good to have some extras.”

“I am three seconds away from shoving your fool ass on the ground, boy.”

“You can’t call me that no more. I’m eighteen.”

“A number don’t mean you’re grown.”

John huffed and flipped back over roughly; the cot shook from the sudden movement. Arthur snickered into his pillow. Body rigid with unnecessary anger, Arthur slung a lazy arm over to keep the irate fool from falling out of the cot and pulled him close. It worked like a nightcap. John went slack, drifting off within minutes. Arthur soon followed.

\--

Sounds of the world erased by the wind whizzing by and the setting sun lighting the way as Grace tore after Belle across the countryside, if heaven did exist this was about as close as he’d ever get. Somehow riding made Arthur feel both alive and at ease at the same time. It called to something inside him, something that was true to him and him alone. Everything just seemed more beautiful from atop a horse. It felt right to be out here, flying through the boundless west alongside his brother. As they always had.

Neither would admit it aloud but the chase wasn’t real. Belle was going slower than normal because John didn’t want to overexert Grace. Dutch had not-so-subtly mentioned replacing his old mare but Arthur didn’t have the heart to. He loved her. Plain and simple. She was a good horse and when a man suffered one loss after another, he couldn’t help but want to hold onto the few things that stood the test of time.

John looked over his shoulder. “You wanna come into town with me? We could go to the Imperial.”

“What’s there?”

There was that devilish look again.

“Women.”

“Oh for the love of—”

Shadows of ten riders stilled his tongue, stretching out like hands towards a throat to throttle. At first, Arthur didn’t know who they were but then he spotted the pale-haired Irishman from the con, who was staring him down. Shit. His fellow riders were dressed similarly, shabby suits with green bandanas or neckties. Arthur closed his eyes. O’Driscolls. Was there anywhere those cockroaches haven’t infested yet? The man had seen Arthur’s face and must have been tracking him. In the waning daylight, the two turned on a dime and galloped back across the red soaked earth, bullets chasing them in their haste.

“Marston! Go on ahead without me!”

John didn’t listen though. He never listened. Damn him. Damn O’Driscolls.

While open terrain was wonderful to ride through, it made for a terrible place for the pursued. No place to hide. Always in sight. If they could just get back to the trees that dot the mountains, they might be able to escape unharmed. Grace was panting heavily beneath him though, not having recovered from their earlier race.

“C’mon, darling.” Arthur leaned far forward, hoping to decrease the drag. “I know it’s hard girl but hang on!”

Ever persistent the old mare galloped as hard as she could, white foam streaked out and covered the chestnut hue of her neck and flank. The mountains loomed in the near distance and Arthur kept coaxing and spurring her forward.

It happened in an instant. Arthur was flung through the air. Pain shot through hard and clear, enveloping his left side as he slammed into the ground. Plumes of dust, then darkness swept over. Black and sudden but brief as a wave upon the shoreline. He gasped for air, laying there stunned. His head throbbed as he stared up at the darkening sky. A couple of lonely stars, flickering softly, stared back. Every muscle protested when Arthur slowly rose, but no part of him ached as much as his heart did when he saw Grace laying beside him. Too many bullets. Too much blood. She was already gone.

“Arthur!” John yelled, coming back for him despite the hoards of men about to swarm them.

“Marston, no!”

The scent of blood made Belle rear, causing John to fall onto his back. Not wanting a second horse to die, Arthur fired his revolver into the air, screaming her further. The black Thoroughbred shot off, leaving the two of them alone and surrounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The Green Goods scam was a popular con in the 19th century. (See: _A Pickpocket's Tale: The Underworld of Nineteenth-Century New York_ by Timothy J. Gilfoyle).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	14. How to Love Unconditionally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dealing with the O’Driscolls, all of the guilt that has been building within Arthur for years becomes overwhelming and the two brothers hash it out. (Or: Two emotionally constipated idiots struggle to express how much they love the other).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to thank everyone who has ever read, commented, and/or gave kudos to this fic. As someone who is incredibly shy about sharing my writing, it has meant the world to me that so many of you have enjoyed this story. I have a lot of feelings about Arthur and John, particularly about their brotherhood ~~and how they clearly never stopped loving each other despite all the pain,~~ and it has been so much fun exploring the idea that they had a strong relationship prior to the yearlong absence. I tried to bring all the major themes of the story together in this final chapter and hope it is a satisfying conclusion.
> 
> Thank you again. <3

With the leaves rustling louder than a rainfall and the coyotes trying to keep up with the howl of the wind, the soft whimpers of a little boy were almost lost. Almost. The kid was trying his damnedest not to cry. Eyes slammed shut. Nose muffled by his tattered sleeve. Of course, Arthur just had to be the one on guard duty. If Hosea or even Dutch were awake, they’d know what to do. He knew nothing about kids. When a hiccup escaped and John slapped a hand over his mouth, Arthur couldn’t take it anymore. He shifted towards the boy, who curled into a tighter ball in response. Skinny arms wrapped around his knobby knees, his face was barely visible beneath a mass of scraggly black hair.

“C’mon, kid. Quit that.” Arthur reached forward hesitantly, not sure why he was crying in the first place and even less certain how to soothe him.

The little bastard had been all claws and teeth earlier. He braced himself for round two. Instead, as skittish as any feral creature, John flinched as if Arthur was going to hit him. He retracted his hand but John still rattled off apologies, as if a twelve-year-old who nearly had the life choked out of him was supposed to be stronger than this. His voice shook along with his body, chilled by the night air. Arthur took the blanket off his bedroll and wrapped it around John.

“Look at me, kid.” He did. “You’re safe now. Ain’t no one gonna hurt you no more. Not while I’m around.”

No hissing and spitting this time. John let Arthur cup his face with his big hands, let him brush away the tears with his thumbs. Big brown eyes stared up, full of the same quiet awe from when he had scooped the boy up with the severed noose still hanging around his neck. It was a look of undeserved trust. One that Arthur would never quite grow used to.

Unable to say no, Arthur let John use his thigh as a pillow and he soon fell asleep. He sat there, carefully removing twigs from the boy’s hair, thinking about how out of all the ideas Dutch and Hosea have schemed up, thrusting Arthur into the role of older brother had to be the most ill-advised yet. Taking care of others, especially a boy with fire in his eyes and mischief in his heart, was far beyond his skill set. Destruction seeped from Arthur's fingers, laying waste to every good thing that ever came his way. It was only a matter of time before he would lead the boy to ruin.

And he had.

Bloodshot and oozing with hatred, those eyes held no softness now. Teeth bared as he hurled one violent threat after another. John was a snarling and snapping wolf—ready to tear out the throat of the man on top of Arthur. Head having smacked against the floorboards one too many times, the world weaved. Up and down the low, domed roof went; candles upon the walls now spinning orbs of light. Perhaps when asked where Dutch was he shouldn’t have kept suggesting the Netherlands. Hands and feet bound, there was little Arthur could do to stop the unnamed O’Driscoll on his chest from wrapping his thick hands around his throat.

“Get off of him! You both better hope these ropes hold ‘cause when I—”

“Shut it, will ya?” After checking John’s binds one last time, the pale-haired O’Driscoll squeezed his cheeks with one hand. “Colm’s gonna love you, kid. Feisty little bastard.” John shook his head free and tried to bite him, earning himself a hard slap before being thrown to the ground.

When the hands left, the flood of air sent Arthur into a hacking fit. Every cough racked his aching chest, echoing all around the tunnel-like room and blending with the heavy laughter as their two last tormentors left the room. The long, wooden shelves full of empty barrels rattled when they slammed the door shut. There was no part of him that didn’t scream beneath his skin, his body littered with bruises and cuts and broken skin. He taunted them all mercilessly because he could take it, he could take every one of their blows and remain true to Dutch. Arthur did it to keep their attention from John. All in vain though, what with Colm on his way. Nothing hurt like the prospect of that sadistic bastard getting his hands on his brother.

No.

Not happening.

Not while there was still air in his lungs. Not while Annabelle still haunted him.

Rigid and stiff like a puppet, invisible strings sat him up and drove Arthur towards the boy, who was scooting his way over as well. He hadn’t been able to protect him fully. Eyebrow and lips split open, face crusted with dried blood, torn clothes revealed bits of purpled skin beneath, Arthur gritted his teeth and looked away as John rested his head against his shoulder. They sat together in silence. Arthur breathed in and out slowly, grateful that the dizziness from before was fading.

“Should’ve just left me like I done told you.”

“Well, you’ve always said I’m a fool.”

Arthur scowled darkly as John gave a hollow laugh, wishing he wouldn’t be so blasé about every damn thing. From what he could see, the old wine cellar held nothing sharp. If he had to bite through those damn ropes to free John, so be it.

His brother sat up straight. “What about the candles?”

They were too high up for one person to reach, but two? Maybe. It took a bit of maneuvering getting John’s legs around Arthur’s neck so he could sit on his shoulders. Carefully, Arthur lifted John upwards. Thank heavens the kid was still more of a string bean than a man. They fell over a couple of times without arms to keep them steady. On their fourth try though, they leaned against the wall to keep from wobbling and Arthur was able to bring John up to the flame.

“This has gotta be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” John grumbled after burning himself instead of the rope.

“That is a bold statement, Marston.”

“Shut up.”

When John finally succeeded and tore his wrists free, he did so with too much enthusiasm and the two toppled over. Again. If their knees weren’t battered before, they were now. Cheeks flushed, John ducked his head as he made quick work of the binds around Arthur’s wrists.

“I think we’re in an old house,” Arthur said as they freed their ankles. “Our best bet is to—”

“Burn the place down with them in it.”

“Is now _really_ the time for jokes?”

“Who’s joking?”

“We’re outnumbered and got no weapons. You’re gonna stick by my side and not do anything stupid.” Arthur rubbed the torn skin of his wrists. “A tall order, I know, but it’d be best to sneak out unnoticed.”

John grabbed onto his shirt, eyes darting all over his face. “What if we get caught?”

Fear was generally an afterthought for his brother—except when it came to open water, of course, then it was front and center—to see him so nervous was strange. After all this time, he should know that Arthur would do everything to protect him.

His big hands covered the slender ones, only to pry them off. “Then you’re gonna run and not look back.”

“You must think pretty little of me if you think I’d leave you to die at the hands of those animals.”

Height difference practically nonexistent at this point, they stood eye-to-eye, glaring as if the other could be intimidated. However, with no patience to draw upon and an incessant clock ticking away in the back of his head, Arthur ended the stalemate by wrapping a hand around John’s arm and dragging him towards the door. The brat wormed his way free and pushed past him, creeping up the stairs faster than he should have until Arthur pinched the back of his shirt and he slowed.

Wallpaper discolored and peeling, ceiling spotted with water damage, and only broken furniture in sight, the large home they found themselves in had been long abandoned and picked over by countless thieves. Fading moonlight shone through the many narrow windows, but none could be opened. Bottles clinking and happy voices wafted out from a room to their right. Before the burlap sack went down, Arthur had counted ten of those bastards. They went left and slunk towards a corner, peering out carefully ahead of rounding it. Two O’Driscolls guarded the front door. Maybe if he caused a distraction, they’d come after him and John could escape.

“Don’t even think about it!” John whispered harshly, blocking Arthur with spread arms the moment he picked up a ruined chair to throw through a window.

Then his eyes went wide.

Arthur spun around and whipped the chair at an O’Driscoll who had sneaked up on him. Knocked the fool flat onto his back; his pistol spun across the floor. His foot caught it. Shot him dead as John dove to the floor. His brother grabbed the revolver from the corpse’s off-hand holster, taking out the two by the door.

“Go now!” Arthur shouted, pistol still smoking.

A stampede of boots kept John by his side however, the two turned and fired at the O’Driscolls streaming towards them. Arthur bounded forward and seized a shotgun off a fallen man. He didn’t flinch when the head of his earlier tormentor exploded, painting him and the wall with blood and chunks of bone. He would kill every single bastard who came between him and bringing John home.

The boy had a shotgun too and blasted a gaping hole through the chest of a man who came for Arthur. Bullets blocked them from reaching the other. Arthur’s arms stung something fierce even before he hit the floor. He rolled over and tripped the O’Driscoll standing above. John had vanished. Infuriated, Arthur crawled on top, mustering up his last bit of strength to overpower the smaller man, twisting his hands towards his own jaw. Shot it clean off.

Back on his feet Arthur dodged the wounded and the dead; trails of red traveling down his sleeves onto the floor as he searched for John. Found him pinned beneath the pale-haired O’Driscoll. Briefly. The boy threw him off, grabbed his shotgun, and smashed the barrel into his face. He clawed at his mouth screaming; front teeth all shattered. John dropped the shotgun in favor of a stolen knife. Eyes unblinking, he drove the long blade up through the soft skin between the man’s chin and neck. It pierced through, prying open his jaw which gushed and bled down his chest before John ripped it out and whipped the knife into the back of an O’Driscoll running away from them. He fell, writhing in agony as John picked up the shotgun and stalked forward like a man possessed. It took a pair of arms encircled around his waist to break the spell.

“Let’s go,” Arthur croaked in John’s ear, unable to tear his gaze from the carnage at his brother’s feet. “Before the others come.”

\--

Belle had run all the way back to camp and they rode out knowing something had gone terribly wrong. It had taken both Callanders to restrain Dutch, dragging him away from Duke when they found Arthur and John laying bloodied and bruised in the tall grass. Still ranting and raving hours later, Dutch’s shadow paced back and forth along the canvas of Hosea’s tent. The old man himself was checking all of Arthur’s bandages; full of a darkness he hadn’t seen in many a year. It was a look that could fight fire with fire and match Dutch’s rage. Except now he had the wisdom not to act on his more violent urges.

“For the last time, we’re not going after Colm.”

“You think I’m just going to let this stand?” Dutch’s shadow halted. “Let Colm and his sewer rats think they can touch us? Think that they can hurt my sons and get away with it?”

Arthur tried to push Hosea’s gentle hands away, stomach churning as if Dutch was angry with him. He knew, logically, this was untrue but it was hard to escape the feeling that he had failed him. If he had been more vigilant, this never would have happened. Hosea wasn’t having any of it though, flicking his head at John to hold Arthur’s arms down.

“I _know_ what you’re thinking,” Dutch sneered, voice swelling with enthusiasm the longer he spoke. “You think this is about revenge. Well it goddamn isn’t! This is about doing what’s _right_ , Hosea. I don’t need your doubt right now. I need you to have my back for a change and help me figure out how to—”

“What’s right is keeping _our_ boys safe,” Hosea snapped, unable to be baited or guilted. Not this time at least. “Keeping all of these folks safe. Colm has an army, Dutch. We have a family. If you want to commit suicide, do it alone. We’re leaving. Tomorrow.”

Dutch didn’t so much as relent but put his hatred on ice instead, eagerly waiting the day he could let it thaw. For now, Hosea got his way and they went north. Straight through to Colorado. Out where fields of wildflowers blanketed the earth; where the Rocky Mountains stretched so high their snow-capped peaks seemed to skim the heavens. Arthur felt like he could breathe again until they traveled deeper and deeper and the cliffs and canyons became swaying grasslands and the footprints of man tarnished the land once more.

Eager to shake off the dust from their long journey, the whole lot of them ventured up to a mining boomtown after unpacking. Arthur went straight to the local saloon. In a foul mood, he ordered one beer after another and had no plans to stop anytime soon. Oblivion was the destination but he decided to leisurely stroll towards it, rather than run forward with open arms. Too many thoughts were fighting for supremacy and he just wanted to shut them up for a bit. A month had passed and somehow Arthur was still plagued by guilt. Disappointing Mary had made it even worse.

After taking care of the loan sharks hounding her father—looking fresh out of hell helped considerably—they had sat together on a park bench. He had wanted to hold her hand so badly his fingers twitched, but heavily bandaged and marred by black and blue, Arthur kept them by his sides.

“Just look at you,” Mary had sighed and placed a gentle hand upon his cheek. It had burned worse than the bullet that had seared his skin. “I wish you cared about yourself as much as you care for the gang. Don’t follow Dutch to Colorado. Ain’t nothing there but misery for you. Daddy is taking us back to Saint Denis next week and—oh Arthur, don’t make that face.”

“Mary, I love you but you couldn’t pay me to step anywhere near that city.”

Her face froze at his half-hearted joke. “Don’t say things like that, Arthur. Don’t say things that aren’t true. If you did, you would come with me. You’d leave all this awfulness behind.”

His heart, what little was left of it after being torn apart time and again, split in two once more. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was so wretched and selfish that he was incapable of real love and being loved. Maybe the way he loved wasn’t right but he didn’t know how else to. After fishing out her engagement ring and placing it in her hand, Arthur promised to come back and collect it the day those words were no longer true to him. Then he left her. Again. Hoping that Mary would forgive him one day and write. Even if she didn’t, Arthur knew he would never go to retrieve that ring.

“You gotta hold the stick at a high angle to make the ball bounce,” John explained to a gaggle of girls surrounding the pool table.

Handsome in that dangerous sort of way women seemed to like and earnest despite his devil may care attitude, John was popular with the ladies—both sporting and not—though he didn’t seem to realize this.

“Y’know, my brother is better at this. Arthur! C’mere!”

He shook his head.

Hell. No.

“Aww, he’s shy,” John whispered too loudly. All the ladies giggled and he kind of wanted to throttle the cheeky bastard.

Unfortunately, Arthur was the only man in the saloon not jealous at all the attention John was basking in. A couple of miscreants peeled themselves off the bar and came over to start trouble. The boy didn’t mind the new company, until one made the mistake of manhandling the slender redhead next to him. John cracked the man over the head with the pool cue, before drawing his six-shooter.

“The three of you best back the hell off,” he growled as the saloon fell still. “Unless you’re fixin’ to visit the undertaker.”

Anger had always coursed through his veins, but with every passing year the veils he covered up his rage with grew thinner and thinner. Nowadays with sharp retorts ready on his tongue and fingers itching to pull triggers, wrath billowed out of John like waves of heat and scorched the fingertips of those that reached out. Arthur had been like that. Hell, there were times when Arthur was still like that. But to see his brother smirk as the thugs backed off, trigger finger still hovering, his gaze drifting to Arthur in search of approval—it made him a hypocrite, but he had to walk away.

Through the crowd and out the doors. Guilt drove him forward. For years, he felt as though John was losing parts of himself, irreplaceable pieces that make a man human, make a man whole, and that with every lesson he had imparted that Arthur was the one puncturing holes. Outlaws are crafted and molded; grotesque sculptures that would never adorn the halls of any storied museum. Killers aren’t born. They become.

Was that Isaac’s future? Would Arthur somehow ruin that boy too?

He remembered when he discovered Eliza was pregnant. Eight months had passed since he saw her last. Bought her roses to brighten up what would be just a quick hello. But when he caught sight of her rounded belly, Arthur dropped the bouquet and poor Eliza had to fetch him a chair before he fell to the ground like some delicate southern belle.

“I’ll take astonishment over anger,” Eliza had laughed, carefully collecting the flowers to place in a vase. “I don’t expect nothin’ from you and I don’t want you to feel like you owe us anything. If you want to help though, I won’t stop you either.”

Even before she placed his hand on her belly and he teared up at the powerful little kicks inside, Arthur promised to support her as best he could. A better man would have proposed right then and there. But all Arthur could do was hope having Eliza as a mother, who was good and strong in all the ways he wasn’t, would steer the boy right. Hopefully his missing presence would benefit his son in the long run.

“Arthur!” John called out. “Come back!”

Smoking behind the saloon, John came over and leaned against the wall too. His low tilted hat blocked his brother’s face, but Arthur could tell he was worried by the way his boot toed the ground.

“Go back inside, Marston.”

John plucked the cigarette from his lips and frowned when Arthur didn’t react. “What’s wrong?”

All Arthur could think about was the half-starved boy with the rope around his neck. The boy who fell off horses, only to climb right back on. The boy who sobbed into his chest, babbling apologies for crying, unable to explain why being cornered upset him so. The boy who flooded his ears with questions and followed him around like a lost pup. The boy who rolled around in the grass, scurried up trees, and ran around with twigs in his hair while begging Arthur to play with him. That boy was dead and Arthur had helped kill him.

There had been so many chances along the way to save John. He should have put his foot down from the start. He should have taken him away one of the countless times they were alone together. But nothing mattered more to Arthur than loyalty, he couldn’t bring himself to break Dutch and Hosea’s trust, let alone their hearts. He wasn’t the only one who loved the scrawny little troublemaker. So Arthur stayed quiet, stayed true, and watched as the pieces fell away to reveal an angry and violent young man headed nowhere in life but an early grave.

His eyes and nose burned like he was on the verge of tears. “M’sorry.”

John lifted Arthur’s hat slightly. “For what?”

“For everythin’. Every goddamn thing.”

He puffed away at the cigarette. “I wish I knew what went on in that head of yours.”

“You really don’t.”

“Well, I don’t rightly know what you’re sorry for, but knowing you, it’s probably something you ain’t oughta be worrying ‘bout.”

John tried to give him an encouraging smile and Arthur wished he wouldn’t. He was doing that thing again. Looking at Arthur like he was the sun, like he made the planets revolve, like he brought the dawn and chased away the darkness. And a bit like the sun, Arthur felt too large, too bright, too seen, too unworthy of such open adoration.

“Why the hell do you always look at me like that?”

“Huh?” John physically recoiled at the animosity.

“Don’t be stupid. Y’know damn well what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. Care to enlighten me or do you wanna keep wasting time by speaking in riddles?”

Arthur couldn’t figure out if he was too drunk or not drunk enough for this shit. He glared at John, who matched the look when he realized silence would be his only response. His brother threw the cigarette down.

“You’re a real son of a bitch, Arthur Morgan. Y’know that? Like you wouldn’t also have protected those ladies from being grabbed.” John got right in his face. “Every fuckin’ thing I do makes you mad. Ain’t nothin’ good enough for you. Oh no! You’re _perfect_.”

Arthur shoved him aside, but John latched onto his arm and wouldn’t let go.

“How ‘bout the way you look at me? Huh? Down your nose like some uppity lady; like I’m a worthless piece of shit stuck to your boot. You want me to stare at my feet when I talk to you? Hm? Not allowed to meet your eye no more?”

“Marston—”

Like a train barreling down the tracks with its brakes long broken, whenever John got like this nothing could stop him. He always had to say his piece. No matter what. He was no longer the boy who ran from fights.

“All I’ve ever done is try to make you happy and for some reason you’ve always hated me. Why? What the did I ever do to you? I didn’t ask for any of this! I didn’t ask to be saved from that tree. I know Dutch and Hosea treat us differently and I know it ain’t right—”

“Mar—”

“You can’t be jealous though.” John barked out a harsh laugh. “You’re Dutch’s pride and joy. You can call me Golden Boy all you want but it’s you he adores. The son who does everything he says without question. The son who’s good at everything.” Arthur broke free but John pursued. “Meanwhile I can’t do nothin’ right. I’m not you. I’ll never be you.”

“Then stop trying, John!”

Although his mouth snapped shut, an agitated breath blew from his nose loud and clear, like he was barely keeping himself from exploding. Arthur didn’t know what was worse: John’s admiration or that his brother believed he hated him.

“I don’t hate you.” Arthur spoke slowly and firmly, hoping his voice could compensate for his inability to express just how much John meant to him. “Not at all. Never.”

“Well, ya sure give a damn good impression of it.” John stared down at his feet, undercutting the comment’s bitterness. “I don’t see why trying to be like you is bad.”

“I’m not somethin’ to aspire to, John. I don’t want you to be like me. I want you to be better than me.”

John’s head snapped up; gaze full of that irrepressible spark of his. “Not everyone hates you, the way you hate you.” He ran an uneasy hand through his hair. “Aw hell, Arthur. You know I ain’t no good with words! I just—I just wish you could see what I see when I look at you.”

Perhaps this was what a stag feels like when it realizes it has no chase of escaping the wolf that has been tailing it steadily over countless miles; what a lawman feels like when Arthur reaches for his revolver. Wholly immobilized.

“I see the best person I’m ever gonna know.”

Heartbeat in his ears, he waited on bated breath for John to retract what he said, to toss out an insult. Something. Anything. But he didn’t. His brother went back to leaning against the wall beside him. Silence didn’t bother him. He didn’t need a response and Arthur loved him for it.

\--

Campfires were such a staple in his life that if asked what home smelled like, burning wood would be the answer. Sitting around one, even during the day, was ingrained into his soul. The whole gang was here. Dutch and Hosea trading jabs over a game of chess. John hunched over on the ground, trying to whittle something in secret while Copper gnawed at a large bone next to him. Miss Grimshaw and Pearson were chatting while he skinned the rabbits for their stew. The Callanders were singing a horribly bawdy song that had Karen laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. A fullness settled in his chest as he looked at them. It was gratitude, he would think later. For Arthur, home was a group of people, not a place. He was blessed to have somewhere where he belonged, with someone who loved him despite all of his flaws.

Arthur closed the journal, now complete, and tried to peek at what John was whittling. The young man scrunched up his face defiantly and pocketed the wooden figurine.

“Keep doin’ that and your face is gonna get stuck.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Then you’ll always look like an overgrown racoon. Now that I think about it, that’s probably why Copper likes ya so much. Being a coonhound and all.”

The brat chucked some of the wood shavings at his leg, but immediately bounced up when Arthur beckoned him to follow with a flick of his head. Thanks to all the madness, his birthday present had fallen to the wayside and Arthur wanted to right that wrong. Once they were far away enough to escape any curious ears, he shoved the journal into John’s hands.

“I’ve, uh, been meaning to give this to you. It’s long overdue.”

John blinked in confusion then began to flip through. It was like watching him grow up all over again, each page had some sort of sketch of John or related to him in some fashion, mixed in with scrawls about all the idiotic things he or the both of them had gotten up to over the last six years. John hadn’t even gotten to the end before he hugged it to his chest.

“I recall someone sayin’ they only draw beautiful or interesting things, so which am I?” John batted his lashes obnoxiously.

“Oh for the love of—you’re a dumbass, that’s what.” Arthur reached forward to snatch the journal back but John held it out of reach.

“I’ll take that as both.” His smile stretched so wide that Arthur’s muscles ached just looking at him. “Arthur, this is—Jesus. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I can’t believe you drew all of this just for me. I just—thank you. Thank you so much.”

John was standing there with that stupid hopeful glint in his eyes that arose whenever he wanted Arthur to do something for him. Wasn’t hard to figure out what.

“Yeah, well,” Arthur grumbled, pulling John into a hug. “You can’t go a day without being a fool so I had a lot of material to work with.”

As always, John hugged him back hard and Arthur responded in kind.

Sometimes Arthur felt like he had so much love to give and no one to give it to. Mary didn’t want it. Isaac could only have it in pieces. He gave as much as he could to Dutch and Hosea, but it was a transaction. If one day Arthur could no longer provide, he would no longer be of value. Only John accepted Arthur’s love and gave it back in full and without strings attached. Their relationship had never been based on what Arthur could do for him. John never withdrew his love when Arthur screwed up nor when he failed to protect him. It was consistent. Arthur felt the same and couldn’t imagine not having him in his life.

\--

A lazy, late summer afternoon found Arthur and John hunkered down in a bush, peering out at a mare whose amber champagne coat looked closer to spun gold in the sun. Arthur had been alternating between the extra camp horses, not willing to claim one as his own because he was still so broken up about Grace. It was only when the two of them went out hunting and he saw the Missouri Fox Trotter that now grazed before him that he began to consider moving on.

“Got any names in mind?” John asked.

A sassy little devil and still quite young, Arthur had watched in surprise as the mare tried to stomp a cougar who wouldn’t leave her alone. The animal was smart enough to retreat, but Arthur? Not so much. He immediately tried to tame the mare, but she bucked him off and pranced away with her head held high and haughty. That was the horse for him.

“I was thinking Boadicea.”

“What the hell kinda name is that for a horse?”

“She was a British Celtic Queen who fought off the Romans.”

“I stand by what I said.”

John gave him a stupid grin and Arthur rolled his eyes. Slowly Arthur crept forward. Nice and easy. Don’t want to scare her. Boadicea raised her head, somewhat interested in this new development, legs rearing up to move. Arthur froze, torn between continuing to approach her calmly or charging at her like an idiot and hoping for the best. John would probably crack a rib from laughter if he attempted the latter.

He didn’t get a chance though. A withered voice filled the air and Boadicea trotted off again. Arthur spun around looking for the source. There was a figure in the distance. John was already strolling over to investigate. Belle, ever curious, followed him. A beggar was standing on the lonely dirt road. Hunched over and hooded, holding onto a staff, and eyes a milky white, Arthur hadn’t the faintest idea where the blind man had come from. His toothy smile peeked through a thick black beard that was beginning to turn gray.

“Hey!” John called out. “You want a ride into town?”

“Thank you, young man, but I am right where I need to be. As you both are.”

They halted. How did he know there were two of them? John stupidly waved a hand in front of his face until Arthur yanked him back. The blind man must have overheard them talking. That’s all.

“Care to take a gander into the future?” He smiled and raised an empty mug. “Be not afraid. I see only true things.”

Neither believed in fortune-telling, but both immediately dug into their pockets to fetch a coin. Once paid, he lowered his hand and a grave expression came over him. “You both will lose something precious, something very dear to your hearts, but in the end you will realize it was never really gone at all.”

Arthur paused, not sure what to make of that. “Alright, thanks.”

He walked over to Belle, giving the gentle mare a grateful pat before lifting himself onto her. In the distance, jagged mountains pierced the sky where the songbirds soared high above and a feisty horse stood proud below, nibbling on the leaves of a sycamore tree. So enraptured by the world around him, Arthur almost didn’t notice that John was lagging behind, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

“You with me, John?”

His brother snapped out of his daze and hurried over.

“Always, Arthur.”


	15. How to Make This Author Cry (Spoiler: Fan Art)

The very talented [queenstardust](https://queenstardust.tumblr.com/) dedicated this beautiful drawing of Young John and Arthur to _Brothers._

Thank you so much for this and to everyone who given this story love since its completion. ♥


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